


A World I Need to Know

by 13thDoctor, JHarkness



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-03-22 18:25:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13769940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHarkness/pseuds/JHarkness
Summary: In an attempt to unite their tribes, young princes T’Challa and M’Baku are arranged to be married once they come of age.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this tumblr post: http://daughtersofthanos.tumblr.com/post/170942989783/all-im-saying-is-mbaku-and-tchalla-could-get

“Love is more powerful than war.”

T’Challa frowned. Though his mother was fond of such sentimental statements, this one had been unprompted. This was no lesson to learn after a fall or defeat or particularly humiliating failure. Ramonda had simply walked in, sat with her perfect posture, and declared, rather grandiose in her tone, that _love is more powerful than war._

Ramonda was nine months pregnant, and T’Challa was sixteen and still--mistakenly--wary of her wisdom. He glanced sideways and said hesitantly, “That’s beautiful, mama.”

She sighed and folded her hands over her round stomach. T’Challa finished translating the sentence he’d been working so he could give Ramonda his undivided attention. He mirrored her pose. She smiled.

“It is time I tell you something, my son, something very important. Your father wishes he could be here with us.”

T’Challa nodded. T’Chaka was away for a diplomatic meeting with the United Kingdom and would not return home for another week. Often T’Challa wondered how many of these business trips were actually missions for the Black Panther. He supposed, with age, he would gain the knowledge to see the difference.

“Am I in trouble?” He tried and failed to recollect any recent actions that could have earned him a scolding.

“Oh, darling, no.” She patted the space beside her. “Come here.”

He curled up next to her, feet tucked under himself, and allowed her to take his face in her hands. “Your father and I only ever want what is best for you,” she promised, eyes shining.

“Mama, you’re worrying me.” His brows creased as he studied her face.

“T’Challa, we have raised you as a prince. Princes must often make sacrifices for their people.”

Heart racing frantically, T’Challa nodded. He did not trust in the strength in his voice enough to answer her aloud.

“We have arranged for you to be married to the prince of the Jabari Tribe, M’Baku, in two years’ time.” She touched her thumb to his lips. “It was decided before you were born.”

His heart stuttered to a complete stop before restarting into a deceptively calm drumbeat. The Jabari mountain clan was full of cold, hard warriors who had always expressed contempt for T’Challa in his dealings with them. They did not venture into Wakanda’s mainland often, preferring their seclusion, and never once had T’Challa been invited to visit their territory. He wanted to protest, to demand, “Do I have to?” and refuse the arrangement. Instead, he swallowed his pride and trepidation and replied, “This will make us stronger.”

“This will make us stronger.” She paused, covering his cheek with her hand. “Would you like to meet Prince M’Baku?”

“Yes.”

Ramonda beamed, running her hand over the top of her son’s head. “Perhaps you will love him as soon as you meet him.”

“I hope so.”

T’Challa did not love M’Baku as soon as he met him. He hated him.

They met on neutral territory between Wakanda and the mountains, a valley covered in rich green grass. Ramonda accompanied her son, as did an entourage of fearsome Dora Milaje cadetes, including T’Challa’s newest friend, Okoye. She was a fast-learning student whom the other warriors spoke of highly. After the Wakandans filed out of their plane, Okoye walked closest to him, leading the semi-circle of guards.

The Jabari also brought guards. They were as tall as trees, not even full grown adults yet with thighs the size of T’Challa’s head. He held his chin high and kept a steady path. Ramonda greeted King M’Baru. A mountain of a  man, he nodded politely, then gestured toward T’Challa. Unable to hear what they were saying but knowing it would be rude to interrupt, T’Challa waited.

Okoye faced him, though her eyes still scanned the Jabari. “How are you feeling, my prince?”

“Never better,” he lied.

He was sweating. M’Baru and Ramonda were still exchanging pleasantries. T’Challa could not even determine which boy was his betrothed; everyone his age stood together rather than revealing the prince’s place. Straining his neck to get a better look, T’Challa noticed a few smiling faces and decided on of them had to be M’Baku’s.

Such idealism was misplaced. As M’Baru announced his son and Ramonda hers, T’Challa and another boy stepped forward. There were thick furs draped over his shoulders. When he walked, he sauntered _,_ shoulders square as if he was preparing for a fight. M’Baku towered over T’Challa, all muscles and variations of the same scowl, arms crossed over his enormous chest. Furious, T’Challa realized his first instinct was to request his parents call the whole thing off. Instead, he bowed like he had been told to--and M’baku _laughed._

“Are you done?” he asked. His voice was smooth and thunderous, and T’Challa found himself drawn to it despite his rage.

Okoye’s hand tightened over her spear. Signaling for her to stand down, T’challa replied, “I don’t think so,” and kissed M’Baku’s cheek. He had to rise onto his toes. Over M’Baku’s shoulder, T’Challa could see Ramonda smiling.

M’Baku bristled. He rested his hands on T’Challa’s shoulders, exerting almost no force to hold him down. “I don’t care if we have to sit here for an hour or for a year, little prince,” M’Baku sneered. Shrugging, he added. “I will never love you.” He moved one hand away to scratch the back of his head like he was bored.

Gritting his teeth, T’Challa said, “Likewise.”

“We are too different.”

“Exactly.”

“Good. Now that we agree…” He opened his arm mockingly to the land before them, the rolling hills they were meant to traverse while they learned of one other’s lives. As a sign of trust and respect, all guards and family members would remain in the meeting valley. “Shall we?”

The corner of T’Challa’s mouth quirked up. “After you.”

Rumbling laughter accompanied their first steps. T’Challa was pleased. If he could not win this boy’s love--a love he certainly didn’t want now that he had met him--he would at least gain his respect. Okoye was reluctant to let her king go, but tradition demanded it, and eventually she put enough distance between herself and the pair that T’Challa felt ready to speak again.

“How long ago did your parents tell you about…” T’Challa wanted to say ‘us,’ but he did not like the look M’Baku gave him and settled on, “this?”

“When I turned fourteen. They told me I had a betrothed, and that we would meet when I was eighteen, and marry when he came of age two years later. I would have been much happier if he had been Jabari.”

T’Challa scoffed. “That would not have made sense. We need to unite the tribes.”

M’Baku rolled his eyes. “Obviously, little prince.”

There it was again: _little prince_. T’Challa hated the nickname almost as much as M’Baku in that moment; their parents were staking the future of the tribes on their union, and MBaku wasn’t even trying. Their words were tense after that. Though T’Challa pressed, M’Baku refused to share anything about his life except Jabari traditions. Even then, most of this was disguised scorn for the Wakandans--by the time they returned to the entourage, T’Challa was considering asking Okoye to stab M’Baku. Just a little.

“How did it go?” Ramonda asked on their return.

“I think…” T’Challa hesitated, searching for the perfect words. “I think we feel the same.” He glanced over to the Jabari where M’Baku stood, eyes hard and hating. T’Challa nodded. “Yes. The same.”


	2. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely comments and feedback so far! We appreciate every single kudo. You keep us writing. Enjoy!

T’Challa crossed his arms and legs as he sat. “I don’t want to marry him, Baba.” Tearing a handful of grass from the cliffside, he tossed it over the edge and scowled. After their first meeting on neutral territory, M’Baku and T’Challa would start meeting on each other’s homelands weekly. M’Baku was scheduled to make his first visit in three weeks, and T’Challa was determined to stop it.

His father smiled softly. “Why is that?”

“He said he was going to eat me! And then he laughed and told me he was kidding because I am ‘too scrawny’ to eat.” T’Challa made two fists, looking side to side at his bare arms as he did so. “I am _not_ scrawny.”

T’Chaka’s smile grew. He pulled his son off balance by winding his arm around his shoulders. “That is what upset you most?”

Shrugging, T’Challa added, “The prince is a vegetarian.” He huffed, scowled. “Which I only learned because he warned me never to serve him the wrong food!”

“Your duties as husband will not involve serving M’Baku’s food.”

“I know that!” T’Challa closed his eyes until his breathing evened. When he opened them, tears threatened. “I hate him,” he said quietly.

They stared out at the mountains together. If T’Challa squinted, he could imagine the sprawling Jabari architecture. He had never seen it--no Wakandan had, not in centuries--but fisherman told tales of a gorilla-guarded city, its people impervious to the cold as their gods stood sentry at almost every turn. The early Jabari settlers had built into, over, and around the mountains. Fog and distance concealed the result.

His father’s voice startled him. T’Challa snapped his attention away from his fantasies and returned it to T’Chaka.

“I was very fortunate to marry for love. The first time I saw your mother, I thought Bast must have carved her from vibranium and breathed life into her, she was so perfect.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Yet, your mother drives me crazy. We _still_ argue.”

“But you love her.”

“Of course.” T’Chaka looked sideways at T’Challa, a small twinkle in his eye.

T’Challa shook his head violently. “No, Baba, no, this is _much_ different. Whenever I think of Prince M’Baku, I envision myself throwing him off this cliff.” He stood and raised his hands above his head as if was hefting something large. Grunting with fake effort, he marched to the edge and yelled, laughing, “I am not so little now, eh?”

Chuckling, the king called him back. He held out his arms, and T’Challa slid into them, still happy to be held by his parents. T’Chaka asked, “What am I going to do with you?”

“Do not make me marry him,” T’Challa whispered, all of his previous mirth absent.

“Andinokwazi.” _I cannot._

T’Challa wrenched himself away. “Then I hate you, too,” he snapped as he stormed off toward the citadel.

He tried to work off his frustration by sparring with Okoye during her break from training with the Dora Milaje. She beat him mercilessly. Afterwards, they ate a heavy lunch and she offered to frighten M’Baku into being nice. T’Challa lamented that even she could not even accomplish that, so they settled on discussing politics until Okoye left.

All of T’Challa’s anger toward his father vanished when his Kimoyo beads activated and a calm voice announced, “Your mother is giving birth.” T’Challa sprinted through the market and the palace grounds, through ornately decorated halls, graceful enough to avoid most collisions but excited enough that a few vases met their end that afternoon.

The medical lab was soundproof from the exterior. Once the doors opened, however, Ramonda’s screams rang loud and clear into the wide, white space. T’Challa breathed deeply. He had been told to expect this, that childbirth was a painful process even with Wakanda’s technology. Though, he did not expect his father to also be shouting.

“You almost broke my fingers!”

“So much for the legend of the great Black Panther!”

“I am not so certain that the heart-shaped herb accounted for hormones when it grew!”

T’Challa hid his laughter beneath his hand as he entered. T’Chaka surrendered his hand back to his wife while T’Challa walked to his side. “Unyana,” the king and queen said in unison. T’Challa thought he could never be prouder to be their son than in that moment.

After six hours, Shuri was placed in Ramonda’s arms. A fierce, protective fire burned through T’Challa’s heart when he looked at his baby sister. Tears fell freely from his eyes. “I love you,” he cried, speaking to them all, looking at the floor. His father’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Ramonda stroked his cheek, and the baby made a soft cooing noise that melted T’Challa in an instant.

The doctors took Shuri for a couple hours to finish routine examinations. T’Challa paced the entire time, torn between his confidence in Wakandan medicine and his newfound anxiety. Ramonda and T’Chaka fell asleep. When the doctors returned, Shuri was wrapped in a vibrantly colored blanket, clean and snoring.

Seeing the rest of the unconscious royal family, the doctor asked, “Do you want to hold her, Prince T’Challa?”

T’Challa froze. The doctor smiled kindly and continued, “You will not drop her. Hold her just like this.” She demonstrated, and then transferred the bundle to T’Challa’s arms. His first instinct was to grip Shuri tightly, but he relaxed as he’d been instructed, and the baby resumed her nap uninterrupted.

He walked Shuri around the lab, whispering, “One day this will all be yours. One day, you will be smarter than your big brother.” Kissing her small forehead, he finished, “I can’t wait.”

The next few days passed in a blur of both restlessness and too much sleep. A rotation of Dora Milaje remained nearby at all times. Once Okoye arrived, it took all of T’Challa’s self-control not to rush Shuri over to her and wave her around like a newly minted invention. Okoye had a duty to perform.

Ramonda recovered quickly, returning to her personal quarters in under a week. Shuri’s nursery was in the same room. Despite the monitors available to him, T’Challa borrowed a hovering cot from the lab and slept next to Shuri’s crib. Eventually Ramonda made him leave, telling him he’d have his own children to worry about one day and that he should save all of his sleepless nights for them. T’Challa took another monitor to his room just in case. He visited every day, too.

“She’s so small. Was I ever that small?”

“T’Challa.” T’Chaka looked at his son pointedly, and then at his watch.

Ignoring him, T’Challa continued circling around the crib, tickling Shuri’s soft skin.

“ _Unyana_. The Jabari will be here in an hour.”

Ramonda swept in to quiet any further recalcitrance. With Shuri in his mother’s loving embrace, T’Challa had no choice but to slink back to his room and dress.

Not wanting to be too conspicuous while he gave M’Baku a tour of the city, he wore sandals and a simple robe, the fabric neutral and unpatterned. He also didn’t care about dressing up for the other prince, who was stuck with him, ugly footwear and all. T’Challa ignored the snide comment M’Baku--who showed up looking very uncomfortable without his layers and layers of furs, but somehow not any smaller--made about the outfit.

“ _I_ dressed up,” M’Baku pointed out begrudgingly. He walked ahead of T’Challa even though he knew nothing of the palace’s layout, shoulders stiff in a bright yellow shirt that barely contained his muscular arms and chest.

T’Challa did _not_ comment on how well that shirt fit. Instead he said, “I don’t think wearing a shirt for the first time in your life counts as ‘dressing up.’”

“Do you like imagining me without a shirt, little prince?”

T’Challa tried not to let the comment rile him, but he tensed his shoulders and barely suppressed a growl of frustration. He did, in fact, think M’Baku looked good with or without a shirt, but he hardly needed to make that public knowledge, let alone inflate M’Baku’s ego any more. So he settled for, “I don’t imagine you at all.”

Snorting, M’Baku replied, “I doubt that’s true.” He stopped, turned, and leaned forward onto the railing. Tilting his head, he continued, “Your city… it is not as ugly as I thought.”

Forgetting himself, T’Challa laughed. He and M’Baku stood on a wall overlooking the marketplace, tall enough that anyone walking across it could also see the borderlands and rainforest beyond. Voices called happily to one another below, drifting upward along with the scent of cooking meat and any manner of flowers, perfumes, and trading wares. Street performers sang or played instruments throughout the streets. M’Baku’s ear turned toward a harp to the east. T’Challa watched him until the song ended, struck by how peaceful--almost _soft_ \--the other prince looked with the sunlight on his upturned face.

“It’s beautiful,” T’Challa whispered, heart slamming against his ribcage.

“Hm?” M’Baku faced him again. He blinked a few times, waiting for T’Challa to respond, and then cleared his throat. “It’s alright,” he argued with a smirk. “Next week you will see my home, and you will forget this place.”

“I’d just as soon forget Bast,” T’Challa growled, his lip curling.

M’Baku started, genuinely offended. “I would never ask that of you.” He breathed deeply, pushed himself away from the railing, and said, “Show me around, then, if you love it so much.”

It must have been a peace offering, but M’Baku managed to make it an insult. T’Challa huffed. Striding ahead of M’Baku, he began, “This is the northern wall. Usually there’s heavier guard presence, but I requested privacy.” Beside him, M’Baku concealed a smirk. T’Challa rolled his eyes and continued, “And if you throw me over the railing, someone will definitely see.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Out of the corner of his eye, T’Challa thought M’Baku almost smiled. But when he glanced over his shoulder, that same, indelible look of smugness was there. He walked on. Purposefully detailing the architecture and all manner of less interesting things about the palace that his tutors had drilled into him, T’Challa did his best to bore M’Baku. There was no reason to make an effort entertaining him. They had weeks--years--of visits ahead of them.

Despite this, eventually T’Challa grew exhausted playing tour-guide and defending Wakanda from M’Baku’s ceaseless criticism. Once they were outside, he grabbed M’Baku’s hand, intent on leading him to something more interesting than vibranium design. M’Baku wrenched his hand away with a scoff. “You’re not serious?”

Crossing his arms, T’Challa bared his teeth in something between and smirk and snarl. “We have almost four hours of this left.”

M’Baku licked his lips. Slowly. T’Challa did his best not to track the movement, and ended up just staring defiantly at the sky over M’Baku’s shoulder.

“Where were you going to take me?” Each word was deliberate, suggestive. 

“Uh.” T’challa’s words died in his throat. He waved his hands in front of his chest, trying to convey what he meant while he, obviously in a very kingly and graceful manner, choked. “I didn’t, I didn’t mean--”

“To go to you room?”

“Right, I wasn’t suggesting--”

“--because I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed.”

T’Challa cocked his head. M’Baku mirrored the movement. “I don’t like you at all, little prince,” T’Challa groaned, and M’Baku smiled as he continued, “but I’ll admit I find you attractive. I don’t like this arrangement, either, but I’m sure we can make it benefit us in… some ways.” M’Baku spread his arms wide as if to physically pass the suggestion on to T’Challa.

Gaping, T’Challa found himself once again unable to respond. While he didn’t  _ hate  _ the idea, M’Baku annoyed him enough with all of his clothes on that T’Challa wasn’t sure the situation would be improved without them. So he ignored the proposition altogether.

“I was going to suggest we go to the training arena. Okoye and the Dora Milaje are there now. I wanted to watch them knock you down.”

M’Baku lifted his eyebrows. He let T’Challa’s questionable change of topic slide, for which T’Challa was grateful, and stepped forward until he was crowding into T’Challa’s space. Their breath mingled when M’Baku asked, “And what makes you think they could?”

T’Challa had been correct. Once they stepped off the train, a courtyard came into view, with high white walls painted over in vibrant murals by the Wakandan schoolchildren. The training arena was full of warriors, their battle cries ringing through the air alongside the sounds of their weapons clashing. Even M’Baku was impressed. He admitted as much, and T’Challa flashed his teeth in a brilliant smile, too proud of his people to keep a stern expression on his face. “I know, they’re amazing.”

Achen, the General of the elite Dora Milaje, called to her warriors when she noticed T’Challa and M’Baku. They saluted him, and he them, before T’Challa approached. “Glory to Bast, you are building a fine army,” he told the General.

She bowed her head graciously. “Thank you, my prince.” She turned to M’Baku. Unsure of whether to use the Wakandan salute or do nothing, she simply bowed. “Prince M’Baku.”

“Your warriors are strong. I am glad to not have to face them in battle.”

“As are we all,” Achen replied.

“But,” T’Challa added, beckoning Okoye--who had been watching the entire time, anyway--over, “I would love to see what would happen if he did.”

“My Prince, I do not think--”

“It was my idea,” M’Baku interrupted. “A request, really. I want to test your finest warrior, see if she can keep up with a Jabari.”

Nodding, and then turning to assess her recruits, Achen missed T’Challa’s eyes flash with shock. He whipped his head toward M’Baku so quickly his neck twinged. M’Baku simply shrugged and pressed his lips together, close to laughter.

T’Challa scowled. If M’Baku enjoyed toying with him so much, their marriage was going to be more trying than T’Challa’s Black Panther training.

Okoye and M’Baku took the field. Okoye, already in her training armor, stood leaning on her spear, appearing almost bored. T’Challa knew better. She was itching to show off. M’Baku was harder to read. Gripping the fabric at his spine, he pulled his shirt off in one fluid motion. T’Challa was surprised the fabric didn’t tear. He tossed it away unceremoniously. 

M’Baku stood nearly a foot above Okoye, his chest bare, arms at his sides, fingers twitching. Okoye crouched, shrinking further below her opponent. She smiled as M’Baku studied her movements. As soon as she planted her feet, he lunged.

Okoye’s speed and agility against M’Baku’s brute strength; it was not a fight to miss. Civilians and Dora Milaje into a circle to get one good look at the pair. Dodging Okoye’s attacks was not easy--T’Challa personal experiences proved it--yet M’Baku held his own. It was amazing. There was so much of him to hit, but so few blows landed.

Her blunt spear whipped into a space occupied only two seconds before by M’Baku’s thigh. He grunted, then delivered a swift jab to her abdomen that sent her stumbling backwards. Okoye yelled. The Dora Milaje closest to T’Challa hissed.

“Come on, Okoye,” T’Challa murmured.

Grunting, M’Baku swung again. That one glanced off her jaw. He tried again, moving closer. Okoye blocked his fist with her elbow, quickly curling her hand around his other bicep when she had a hold on one. She grinned. M’Baku shoved his head forward but she arched her back and leaned away easily. As M’Baku tried to shake her off, Okoye planted her boots on his thighs and flipped, kicking him in the face on her way down.

M’Baku staggered back, his nose bleeding. T’Challa’s heart missed a beat when M’Baku turned to him, eyebrows drawn close and lips turned down into a frown. When Okoye had been hit first, her look had almost been identical, but Okoye had her reasons, and they were to impress and prove she could defend T’Challa. M’Baku didn’t even have to defend his honor. Defeat in casual combat with a member of the Dora Milaje was not shameful, especially after M’Baku had come close to winning. T’Challa pondered this all in silence, fidgeting more as the fight neared an end.

Relentless, Okoye landed kick after kick on M’Baku’s chest and stomach. The crowd watched, holding its breath, as M’Baku tried to find a grip on Okoye’s feet or ankles so he could throw her. But her movements were too quick, and M’Baku was forced to raise his hands in a yielding gesture.

Immediately the other Dora Milaje rushed Okoye, congratulating her and asking her to teach them the flip she had so effortlessly performed. T’Challa was barely able to clap her on the back and commend her before he was pushed aside. Smiling, he looked for his defeated fiance away from the crowd.

M’Baku sat some feet away, rubbing his chest. He would no doubt bruise. T’Challa almost offered to take him to the medical lab, and then laughed at himself. M’Baku bristled.

“What?”

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” T’Challa insisted, his voice too close to fond for his liking. He cleared his throat. “You fought well.”

M’Baku’s eyes widened for a moment, and then he looked down. He pulled his shirt into his lap, wincing slightly, and said, “Not well enough,” every word dripping with scorn.

“Okoye is going to be the best warrior in our history. It would be wasted time to shame yourself for it.” T’Challa assessed M’Baku’s injuries as the other prince moved, decided he was fine, and requested, “Don’t put your shirt back on,” just as M’Baku raised it above his head to do so.

M’Baku lifted his chin. “You are full of surprises today,” he teased.

T’Challa clasped his sweaty palms together behind his back. “Now that you’re warmed up, will you spar with me?” His brown eyes glinted mischievously in the sunlight. When M’Baku hesitated, he added, “Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on you.”

Practically jumping to his feet, M’Baku warned, “You’ll lose.”

He did, once, as did M’Baku. They were evenly matched despite M’Baku’s age and size. As the sun set over the training arena, they called their last match a tie, breathless and bruised as they both were. Seated next to one another, they drank from water bottles brought by the Dora Milaje.

“I’m starving,” M’Baku complained. He chuckled, then clutched at his side. He shook his head at himself. Then, his mouth dropped open. “I’m not supposed to be here for dinner.”

T’Challa had realized it, too. They both leapt up and ran toward the closest train platform, pulling on their previously discarded clothing as they went. M’Baku relaxed in his seat on the ride back, but T’Challa paced the entire time. When they arrived at the palace, he grabbed M’Baku’s wrist and yanked him outside.

Jabari embassaries and the royal family awaited their return. Ramonda, Shuri in a sling over her chest, smiled when she saw the princes’ hands so close. T’Challa saw this and flushed, dropping M’Baku at once.

M’Baku feigned disappointment, obviously for appearance’s sake. He also turned to embrace T’Challa, his log-like arms almost suffocating him. “I still hate you, little prince,” he jeered quietly, “though I look forward to our next meeting.”

“That makes one of us,” T’Challa answered.

When M’Baku laughed, the sound reverberated through T’Challa’s entire body.


	3. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Midterms are creeping up and college must come first, sadly. Enjoy!

During dinner, Ramonda commented on how wonderful it was to see M’Baku and T’Challa enjoying each other’s company. With a forced smile, T’Chaka agreed.

Choking on his food, T’Challa coughed and then said, “Mama, we _fought_ all day. That’s all we did.” His eyes drifted to the scrapes on his knuckles. He could easily run to the lab and have them healed, but he liked the rugged look of the skin, the reminder of the hits he landed and the hits he took. M’Baku had been an incredible sparring partner. There was certainly nothing graceful about his movements, but he had a body solid as a vibranium wall, and he knew how to use it. More often than he would have liked, T’Challa had ended up locked against his chest, or straddling him to keep him down. It had caused some awkward moments during their fights. Okoye had whistled more than a few times even as she obliterated her own opponents. When he had been pinned with his back to M’Baku’s chest, T’Challa had had to agree that their sparring was compromising.

T’Challa blushed, realizing how they must have looked on that training platform to their entourages: sweaty, M’Baku’s body pressed flush against his. Too late he remembered he had company. He started and pulled his hand under the table, then finished his meal in haste to avoid their questions. Excusing himself from the table, he walked to his room, and once there buried himself in a good book until he fell asleep with it drooping onto his chest.

In the morning, he was roused by sunlight streaming through his open windows. He yawned, stretched. Finding the page he had abandoned the night before, he dedicated an hour to finishing his book before going to breakfast.

T’Challa’s stomach roared as he entered the dining room. The table was set with various meats and breads that T’Challa more or less inhaled, mind already a thousand steps ahead of his stomach, thinking of Shuri. Standing, he grabbed a pear--the last of the basket gifted to his father on a recent diplomatic mission to China--and rushed out of the room.

“Mother,” T’Challa greeted quickly when she met him at her door. He slid past her and went straight for Shuri’s crib. Laughing, Ramonda met him there, looking fondly at her son. T’Challa’s incredulous gaze was fixed on the empty crib, the colorfully patterned cushions still indented from Shuri’s small frame.

“Your father took her for the morning.”

T’Challa ran so fast from the room he nearly slipped outside. The Dora Milaje guarding the Queen’s room smirked, and he smiled sheepishly before continuing on. Breathless by the time he found his father, he didn’t even speak, just held out his arms and waited for Shuri to be passed into them. T’Chaka laughed, the same fond sound Romanda had made. “Catch your breath, she is not going anywhere.”

“I wanted--to hold her--first thing this morning--”

“Your _mother_ held her first thing this morning, and will until Shuri no longer relies on her for food, so unless you would have her waking up the whole palace with her cries, I suggest you leave the morning to your mother and myself.”

T’Challa begrudgingly accepted this. He grumbled some under his breath, but knew his father was right--as always. He kept his arms out all the same and brightened as soon as he had Shuri. T’Challa could hardly believe she had already been in his world two weeks; he told his father this, who kissed his forehead and then walked behind T’Challa to hold both his children in his arms.

“And you have been in mine nearly seventeen years,” he remarked, almost incredulous. T’Challa felt his chest rumble before he heard the laugh. T’Chaka continued, “Yet still I see you as I see Shuri now.”

“I’m not a baby anymore.” He said it jokingly, lovingly, while staring at Shuri’s wide eyes. T’Challa was sure he had never loved anything more.

“No. No, you are not. You are a man, and soon to be married, and I am so proud.”

T’Challa stiffened. He suppressed a scoff out of respect, but T’Chaka knew him too well.

“If you hate him so much, T’Challa, no one will force you to marry him. Your happiness is much more important to me.”

“Than all the tribes?”

“Than all the tribes.”

T’Challa thought maybe this was overstating things, but he appreciated the sentiment. He sighed. “I know what you said about--about arguing with Umama, but all we do is argue, all we do is--” _hate_ each other, T’Challa wanted to say, but it was not true. He did not hate M’Baku in every way. His stubbornness, arrogance, selfishness, those were all things to hate. But his love of his gods and tradition was admirable. The line of his shoulders, too.

“You are both leaders, T’Challa-- _young_ leaders--with families and traditions to uphold. You have just met and have nothing in common that you can see. He is Jabari, you are Wakandan; you see nothing.”

“Baba--”

“Tell me next week how you feel. Look for something in common with the young prince, and if there is nothing, tell me next week and I will speak with Lord M’Baru, and you will no longer be arranged to marry.”

T’Challa’s chest swelled with a strange mixture of hope and dismay that confused him. He thought his father sounded almost disappointed, and when he returned Shuri--after kissing her and promising to see her again soon--he felt determined to find something he and M’Baku could share.

T’Challa was busy avoiding his tutor when he saw Okoye. She was off-duty and wearing a blue, sleeveless jumpsuit that would still allow her to fight. There was also something white and soft on her head; T’Challa knew it couldn’t possibly be a wig or hat, and stared until he realized he could just ask. He beckoned her over, and she jogged to reach him. T’Challa peered at her until she was close enough that he could figure out the purpose of what he realized was bandaging on her head.

“Ah. Your tattoo has not healed yet?”

“It needs protecting from the sun one more day.” Okoye sat cross-legged next to him and jerked her chin toward the border. “Mind if I join you?”

“I thought you would be at the Upanga all afternoon.”

She clicked her tongue. “We are not prisoners.”

“Then please,” T’Challa replied, “come along.”

The borderlands’ patrol intercepted T’Challa and Okoye before they made it very far into their territory. T’Challa expected nothing less, and praised them for their vigilance as he and Okoye were cheerily escorted to the tribe’s village. As soon as they approached, a boy in a bright blue cape sauntered up to them, biting into an apple and eyeing Okoye, the smirk on his mouth mirroring in his eyes.

Okoye tapped her fingers on the dagger at her waist. T’Challa greeted, “W’Kabi!” to lessen her suspicion of the newcomer. Sure enough, she straightened her back and introduced herself.

“You are bringing armed guards with you to visit me now?” W’Kabi asked, his tone too mocking to be serious. He would not look away from Okoye.

T’Challa elbowed him. “At least I still visit, eh?” The boys laughed and then hugged. 

They fell into step beside each other, walking nowhere in particular while W’Kabi recounted a story that made him sound especially heroic. Out of the corner of his eye, T’Challa caught Okoye smiling at W’Kabi’s posturing. Their flirting amused him only until he spent an hour on the outskirts of their conversation. He was not one to interrupt, though, and listened with a budding fondness for their relationship until Okoye excused herself back to her training.

T’Challa waited until she was out of sight. “You two are getting along well,” he teased as they walked around the stables, feeding and petting horses.

He smirked. “Not as well as you and your betrothed, I hear.”

“What?” he spoke so loudly that the horse closest to him threw its head back. He leapt away.

W’Kabi took the mare’s head in his hands and stroked her snout until she calmed. Irritated, he replied, “I’m joking. All anyone can talk about is how you two were trying to kill each other yesterday.”

T’Challa scoffed. “Kill each other? We were training.” He didn’t add that the idea of killing M’Baku, while somewhat satisfying, mostly made him queasy. 

W’Kabi shrugged. He fed the mare the remains of his apple and then turned. “Tell me, how do you feel about your marriage? I know it’s what you really came to talk about.” T’Challa tried to protest, but W’Kabi continued, “What kind of a best friend would I be if I did not offer my advice?”

Smiling, T’Challa put his arms around W’Kabi’s shoulders and led him toward the open fields. W’Kabi listened, nodded, and commented at all the right moments as T’Challa raged against his betrothed. Eventually he sighed and managed a righteous, “It is for the good of Wakanda. I will not put my personal feelings ahead of my country.”

“If your marriage is weak, I don’t expect it to strengthen the country.”

T’Challa pondered that the entire way home, allowing his feet to carry him on the familiar path while his mind was distracted. He hoped no one thought him rude as he passed without greeting the strangers who smiled at him. Normally he would have, perhaps even stopping to hear about their lives, but he was far too troubled to give them his full attention.

The sun cast a soft orange glow over everything as it set. Illuminated by a combination of that natural light and vibranium, the palace was a welcome sight after his long day. After saluting the Dora Milaje, he went straight to Shuri’s nursery. He found his little sister asleep in his mother’s arms as they rocked back and forth together.

“Let them rest,” his father suggested. He emerged from somewhere behind T’Challa to grasp his shoulder. “Come, indulge your father in a game of chess.”

“I am too tired.”

T’Chaka said, “You’ve had a trying week.”

They played anyway. T’Chaka won once, then twice, before conceding that T’Challa did need to rest. “You’re hardly a worthy companion in your state,” he soothed, trying to ease the blow to T’Challa’s pride. He failed to mention that T’Challa had not in his life beaten him yet.

Ramonda ran a bath for T’Challa, the basin almost overflowing with the generous amount of bubbles she added. He hadn’t realized how sore he was until he sank into the hot water and gave his body a chance to stop moving. With his feet still, the days of sparring and walking finally caught up to him, and he was glad to soak away some of the calluses and lingering aches. Vibranium technology kept the water heated for hours, but T’Challa pulled himself out and into a long robe as soon as he felt his eyes drooping. Though it was still light out, he went directly to his room, and then fell into a fitful sleep.

He dreamt of war. Blurry faces rushed past, obscured in the haze brought by sleep. When he tried to focus, his head pounded as if he was beating it against the ground. Rain flooded the grass into miles of mud, which he sank into, heaving every breath as he tried to sprint across the slick surface. Although he could not see her, instinct told him Shuri was in danger ahead. Scrambling to his feet, he managed a few more steps before he slipped again.

T’Challa cried out. When a hand reached out to help, he grabbed it thoughtlessly. The only unobscured face, M’Baku’s was split by a wide grin. He was shirtless, streaked with Jabari warpaint. None of the warriors around them paid the pair any mind.

“Thank you,” T’Challa gasped. His own voice was an echo, faraway and fading into the dreamscape.

When he woke, his jaw was clenched so tightly that his teeth hurt. He sat up, rubbing his face where the pain was greatest. His heart raced as he cast about for some water, drinking greedily when he found a bottle on his nightstand. It was dark outside. He wandered out of his room, yawning and hoping he did not look how he felt. T’Challa waved the Dora away when they jumped to his aid. He told them not to follow him, knowing they would anyway, and quietly roamed through the halls of the palace. When he was far enough from occupied rooms, he called W’Kabi on his Kimoyo beads.

“Why are you still awake, idiot?” W’Kabi answered. There was blood on his arm.

“What happened to you?” T’Challa’s heart pounded frantically. He was fully awake, then, and already running toward the closest exit.

“Calm down. One of the rhinos is in labor.”

T’Challa sighed in relief but did not slow. “I’m coming to see it.”

“Hurry up.”

T’Challa missed most of the birth. Deciding to walk rather than take the train that would deposit him at least somewhat closer to the border, he reached W’Kabi’s familiy’s rhino pen just as the calf was struggling to its feet. W’Kabi washed blood from his arms while his mother inspected the cow, making sure she was healthy after the birth. Neither of them saluted him as ‘prince.’ No one even noticed he was there until W’Kabi’s birth mother emerged from their house. She beckoned her wife over.

“T’Challa is here, my love. Bring W’Kabi.”

T’Challa skipped his greetings and launched immediately into questions about the rhinos, the birth, and the calf. He was surprised and pleased to learn that this would be W’Kabi’s responsibility; he had always helped his family, but now this newborn, a female, would be his to raise and eventually breed. W’Kabi spoke excitedly of this as T’Challa followed him into the house.

“--and one day, if she has a bull, it will be mine to train. To ride!” He hit T’Challa’s chest a few times, and then pulled his hands away, eyes wide in mock horror. “Oh no, I’ve assaulted the prince, the Dora Milaje will come for me!” He laughed.

T’Challa pursed his lips and shook his head. “Okoye is too good for you.”

W’Kabi grinned. “Don’t I know it.” Crossing his arms, he tilted his head. “But I think I’ve got a shot.”

Laughing, T’Challa threw his arm around W’Kabi’s shoulders and led them to his room. “Definitely not.”

W’Kabi shoved T’Challa away good-naturedly, chuckling as well. He pointed to a palette on the floor. “You can sleep there if you want.”

T’Challa gaped, fighting a smile. “I--I am your _prince_.”

“And this is my house. You sleep on the floor.”

Dissolving into laughter once more, W’Kabi changed into his night clothes, and they took their respective beds, W’Kabi in his and T’Challa on the floor. It was a familiar scene to W’Kabi’s mothers, who passed and wished them a good night.

They did not sleep immediately. T’Challa specifically avoided talking about M’Baku--though W’Kabi tried--but they still had plenty to fill the time. Okoye came up more than once. It was almost dawn when they decided they should probably sleep for a few hours.

Shoving his head into the pillow, T’Challa forced himself back asleep, asking Bast to shield him from his nightmares. She answered his plea, and he slept peacefully until dawn.

The Dora warriors who had been on his night guard greeted T’Challa in the morning. W’Kabi was already awake, having run off to the group lessons he and the other Border Tribe youths took. He’d left clothes out for T’Challa, which he wore back to the palace, and did not change before his time in the library with his tutor, Masimba. Masimba berated him for skipping yesterday’s lesson and assigned extra work. T’Challa, knowing this was his own fault, accepted it without complaint.

When T’Challa was finished, Masimba gave him another book to read, and he returned the one he’d finished the day before. They did not have time to discuss it, however, before T’Challa was called on his Kimoyo beads to attend his fitting.

“I see you have a busy day.” Masimba stowed the book in a bag already stuffed with sleek tablets and ink-smudged papers alike. “No matter, we’ll talk about that one later.”

T’Challa sighed, thanked Masimba, and dashed out toward his room. In a few days time, the royal family intended to host a party celebrating Shuri’s birth. T’Challa hated the idea of his little sister being paraded around and admired like new Vibranium tech. She was much more precious than that. But when he complained about this to T’Chaka, the king sternly reminded T’Challa that he had been treated with the same honor and that this tradition was not to be overlooked.

“You’ve grown,” the seamstress commented as she was measuring his height. 

He thought of M’Baku’s nickname for him and blushed. “Do you think I will grow more?”

“Undoubtedly,” she answered around a mouthful of pins and sewing needles. She plucked them out one-by-one as she found the correct hemline for his suit. “Of course, that means a lot more work for me!” They laughed together.

When she had finished with his suit, T’Challa began to step away, but the seamstress tapped his knee and shook her head. “You have one more scheduled for today?”

“For what?” T’Challa cringed when his voice sounded petulant and young. He cleared his throat. “I just mean that I thought I only had the ceremony coming up.”

“The Queen has asked me to make something for your visit to the Jabari next week.”

T’Challa was very close to groaning. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose, holding back any protest. With a noncommittal hum, he stepped back into place.

His seamstress smiled. “Any requests?”

“Just… make me look taller.”


	4. Three

T’Challa’s first impression of Jabariland was that it was much colder than that neutral valley had been. He hugged the hooded robe he worse closer, breathing in the fabric, its layers still clinging to a familiar city-scent, rather than the icy mountain air. The small fires burning in the distance spurred him onward. Snow fell steadily around him as he walked. He watched some land directly on Okoye’s head, her tattoo bright and shining as the flakes melted and dripped, and asked, “Okoye, didn’t you bring a hat?” He smirked when she rolled her eyes.

M’Baru, not M’Baku, met T’Challa and his guards. Again unsure of how to respond, the Dora Milaje’s arms remained stiff at their sides; T’Challa could see Okoye twitching in an attempt not to salute the Jabari Lord. She relaxed, relieved, when T’Challa dismissed his guard with a wave and his own salute directed at M’Baru.

“I will wait here for you, my prince.”

“Thank you, Okoye.” She stood at attention further off, allowing the king and prince privacy.

M’Baru hugged, actually hugged, T’Challa--and T’Challa mused he might be smothered by the man’s bulk. But the embrace felt safe and warm. M’Baru let him go with a smile and seemed to consider ruffling T’Challa’s hair before deciding otherwise. He opened his mouth to speak, laughed, and closed it again. And then: “My apologies, Prince T’Challa. I’m very glad to meet you.” His voice was even deeper than his son’s.

T’Challa shot back his own smile. He thanked M’Baru, marveling as he did so how M’Baru had produced such an insufferable child as M’Baku. M’Baru beckoned with his head that they should walk on, and T’Challa followed, wondering how M’Baru wasn’t freezing to death. He was wearing pants that seemed to be a mix of leather and some other fabric, but no shirt; just a fur, shawl-like hood that covered his shoulders and the first few inches of his broad chest and back. Looking at it made T’Challa shiver and pull his robe tighter.

“I hope you won’t be too uncomfortable here. I want to make sure you feel at home.” M’Baru clasped T’Challa’s shoulder.

“It’s a little cold,” T’Challa joked, feeling a warm burst of feeling in his chest when M’Baru laughed.

“Come with me.”

As they walked, M’Baru pointed out significant places in Jabariland, but kept the history brief. T’Challa recalled his own tour of the royal palace with M’Baku and felt somewhat guilty for a moment--but only a moment, because he would not have given M’Baru the same treatment, given that M’Baru was actually a decent person. The king led T’Challa into a mountain, down a heated corridor. Stone and wood shaped it, and electric lights lined the juncture between the floor and walls. T’Challa trailed his fingers along the walls, tracing deep lines and smooth surfaces alike, as he was led deeper into the mountain.

The conversation never moved toward M’Baku. M’Baru asked mostly about T’Challa, and T’Challa in turn talked mostly about Shuri, and by the time M’Baru stopped outside a door and knocked, T’Challa found himself looking forward to being the son-in-law of such a man.

“What?” A gruff voice called from behind the door. T’Challa realized that they were outside M’Baku’s room. His eyes widened slightly in shock. Had M’Baku--

“I’ve brought T’Challa. It is past four, son.”

M’Baku opened the door but did not stay there. He turned immediately and walked over to his bed, sitting on the edge. He pointed to a pair of boots there and looked at T’Challa. “Do you want to go for a hike? I was thinking--”

“Not really,” T’Challa answered, probably too quickly. M’Baru hummed a laugh.

“I’ll leave you two, then. Prince T’Challa, thank you for your time.” He walked over to M’Baku, and, cupping his cheek, whispered something T’Challa couldn’t make out. M’Baku nodded in response and then grinned.

M’Baru closed the door behind himself.

T’Challa breathed a sigh of relief when he could no longer feel the wind. He was grateful to meet M’Baku in a fully enclosed area, even if it was his own private room; T’Challa had seen the throne room on his short tour, and was not particularly enthused by open space and the Jabari wood paneling that still appeared to let in the elements. This was far better. No mountain air, no ice, fur rugs, and--

T’Challa rushed over to the fire. It burned brillianty, casting shadows all around the room. He held out his hands to it and moaned as they regained feeling.

“I could warm you up a lot faster,” M’Baku said from across the room. T’Challa scoffed.

“Cut it out.”

“Suit yourself.”

M’Baku crossed the room to where T’Challa was crouched in front of the fire, sitting in one of the chairs facing it. He watched T’Challa, who tried to ignore that he was being watched, and sighed.

“ _What_?” T’Challa snapped. He was already aggravated, rigid, defensive. He told himself he had done everything he could not to be.

M’Baku sucked his teeth. Scratching his chest, he promptly told T’Challa, “I told my father that we’re so taken with each other we want to move the wedding up.”

T’Challa coughed so suddenly he choked. He shot M’Baku an angry glance when he could breathe again as if the reaction was fully his fault, and then took a deep, long breath. “You did _what_?”

“It’s not as if that’s possible. I was just trying to…”

“Lie.”

M’Baku shifted in his seat. Curling his lip, he replied, “My father is very sentimental. I didn’t want to tell him that we will likely never want…” He looked away from T’Challa and amended, “ _Love_ one another.”

T’Challa thought back to meeting M’Baru. The hug, the initial fondness. He rocked back on his heels. “Oh.”

“Oh,” M’Baku sneered.

“Well… Well, so what, are we expected to hang all over each other at dinner or something? As if I... _love_ you? I’m not that good an actor.” He wanted it to sting, and was disappointed when M’Baku didn’t look hurt in the slightest. He changed tactics. “I don’t feel comfortable lying to your father. I respect him too much.”

M’Baku half-snarled, half-scoffed. “And you’re implying I don’t? Little Prince, you’re in my home now; if I were you, I wouldn’t--”

“Are you _threatening_ me?”

“--I wouldn’t assume so much.” M’Baku pushed himself out of his chair, nostrils flaring. He closed the distance between himself and T’Challa. T’Challa stood to meet him. Even with his snow boots on--the tailor had found him ones with an inch or so of rubber on the sole--he still had to tilt his chin to meet M’Baku’s eyes when they were so close.

M’Baku stepped back suddenly and held out his arms. “Give me your coat.”

“Wha--what?”

“I _know_ you aren’t this stupid, T’Challa,” M’Baku complained, pointing to T’Challa’s chest. “Stop asking _what_ \--” he repeated it in a horrible imitation of T’Challa’s accent, also pitching his voice higher, “--and think for one second. Your coat. Give me your coat.”

T’Challa pressed his mouth together tightly enough that a muscle in his jaw jumped. Even though he was still cold, he took the coat off and surrendered it to M’Baku’s waiting hands. M’Baku walked back over to his bed and tossed it over the covers.

“Whoever made that has never been to the mountains.” He walked toward the back of the room, away from T’Challa.

“I’m not  _ stupid _ !” T’Challa called after him, annoyed he couldn’t think of a better response.

“I know. That’s why I said it, idiot,” M’Baku said, loud enough to be heard while he rummaged inside what T’Challa assumed was his closet. T’Challa started walking toward him, too curious to stay over by the fire, no matter how warm it was. He was a few feet away when something bulky and furry was hurled at him. It hit him square in the face.

“That is better.”

T’Challa put it on without hesitation. Immediately he felt even warmer than he had in front of the fire. Sincerely, he said, “Thank you.”

M’Baku nodded. “It’s much too small for me now.”

Rolling his eyes, T’Challa did grin, and then bit the inside of his cheek to hide it. Clutching the coat around his shoulders, he walked slowly around M’Baku’s room, eyes catching on any personal effects. There were books, scattered pieces of jewelry. What interested him most were the various wooden carvings displayed on equally ornate, shining wooden shelves. He smoothed his thumb over a grand Hanuman statue and smiled.

“Careful with those,” M’Baku snapped.

He rolled his eyes. “Did you make them?”

Rather than answer immediately, M’Baku heaved himself off of his bed and crossed the room. He stood behind T’Challa, enormous chest less than an inch from his back, bulky arms wrapped completely around T’Challa’s body. T’Challa stiffened as M’Baku’s hand covered his own so that they were both touching the statue. Together they followed its edges and curves. M’Baku’s breath was hot against T’Challa’s neck.

“My father made this one. It has stood as my guardian for my entire life; my mother carried it while she was with child and it was placed beside my bassinet when I was born.”  He moved away, and T’Challa felt his absence with the abruptness of someone punching him in the gut.

“And the others?” T’Challa said, clearing his throat.

“The better ones are my father’s. I made this,” he replied, pointing to a small jaguar. The craftsmanship was more rugged, unstable, but T’Challa still saw the care M’Baku had taken carving it.

“It’s lovely.”

M’Baku scoffed. “Don’t mock me.” He slammed the figurine back into place. In two strides he made it back to his bed, which he threw himself onto without further comment.

Indignation rose fast and hot in T’Challa’s chest as he watched the jaguar tremble and then settle. Scowling, he marched back toward the door and threw over his shoulder, “This was a terrible idea.”

“I agree!” M’Baku shouted.

“It was _your_ idea!” T’Challa smirked. “Are you admitting you did something wrong?”

“No-- what. I.” With his hands crossed behind his head, M’Baku’s spoke to the ceiling, futile protests disappearing like breath in cold air. Eventually he turned to his side, bicep bulging as it held up his absurdly large head. His smile was crooked when he said, “You have to stay for dinner.”

T’Challa scoffed. “Of course I will stay. I don’t want to offend M’Baru.”

That smiled faltered. “But you have no trouble offending me.”

“Of course not.” T’Challa gripped the door-handle pointedly.

M’Baku huffed, rolled onto his stomach, and waved T’Challa away. “Fine. Go amuse yourself somewhere else.”

T’Challa did not hesitate walking from the room.

M’Baku did not have guards posted outside of his doors, so T’Challa was able to slip away unnoticed. He was less concerned about navigating guards, anyway, than navigating the winding halls of the Jabari palace. The intricate and ornate wood carvings may have helped guide those familiar with their meanings and placement, but T’Challa realized he was lost not long after leaving M’Baku; the thought of returning, unsuccessful, was too shameful to consider. He pressed on.

Eventually, T’Challa felt wind on his face and made a turn that brought him outside. He yearned for vibranium blankets, soft and heated, or the comfort of his own bed. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the ground. Imagining the soft snow as a comforter was not too difficult when he closed his eyes and tilted his chin into the fur draped on his shoulders.

He thought about what W’Kabi had told him: _If your marriage is weak, I don’t expect it to strengthen the country._ He was strong, and so was M’Baku. Their separate strengths, he considered, could be just fine separate. They would combine forces when necessary, ruling Wakanda and Jabariland as their parents had before them, only with more consideration for one another than the past had allowed. And yet…

T’Challa stroked the grey coat between his forefinger and thumb. His heart swelled and burst within him as he looked from the snowy mountaintops to the valley, and toward the city and horizon. All the stars shined down on all these people. T’Challa never wanted to be the cause of conflict under this sky, not when he should be a protector. He would try harder to love M’Baku, he decided, and start that night.

“You will die out here.” Heavy footsteps accompanied the voice.

Smoothing a disturbed patch of snow with his palm, T’Challa answered, “It’s nice that you care.”

A gruff sound came then, followed by two hands clamped roughly on T’Challa’s shoulders. “I don’t. But Wakanda would probably declare war on us if their treasured little prince died in my home.” His hands remained, pressing gently.

“That’s fair,” T’Challa allowed, and stood, brushing M’Baku aside. “War is the worst inheritance our ancestors could have given us.”

“I don’t know, I love a good fight.” M’Baku laughed, and the mountains carried the sound.

Inside, M’Baku swapped their damp coats for dry cloaks, items of clothing more suited for dinner with the Jabari lord, as T’Challa requested they be. With time to spare, M’Baku insisted he and his T’Challa return to his room. They did, retreating to opposite sides of it, barely speaking except to ask the time or trade insults.

T’Challa did not think his plan of progression was working out. He selected a book at random off M’Baku’s shelf and found it was one he’d already read and loved. Glancing at M’Baku over the creased pages, he felt a smile on his lips before he could contain it.

M’Baku must have felt his eyes on him. He wriggled uncomfortably under the scrutiny, and then sat up. T’Challa blushed under his gaze; his upturned chin and pursed lips could, objectively, be called beautiful. T’Challa was not immune to that.

The slim novel, _From the Notebooks of Melanin Sun_ , was something T’Challa had read when his father had brought back a stack of Black American literature from a visit to California four years ago. He closed it and tapped the cover.

“I never understood why there was such a conflict. I shared it with W’Kabi and he could not even finish it; he was so angered that the Americans would think any kind of love was abnormal, that his parents’ love was something to be ashamed of.”

M’Baku was nodding. And then he was smiling, ear to ear. “If only they could see the most powerful country in the world and its two future kings.”

T’Challa felt a flash of excitement. Their marriage was for Wakanda, for Jabariland, and the world. He could put up with M’Baku for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we'll be covering Infinity War. Later.


	5. Four

T’Challa was able to finish the novel before he and M’Baku were called for dinner. His kimoyo beads alerted him it was around 7:30, but his heavy eyes and growling stomach made it feel later. T’Challa was faintly annoyed that he had felt comfortable enough with M’Baku that he had almost fallen asleep in his room--he was also fairly certain that pride had been the only thing keeping him awake.

Stifling a yawn as he entered the dining room, he noticed there were only three place settings on the gleaming wood table. M’Baru was not yet seated. He moved to hug M’Baku when he saw him, but stopped at M’Baku’s scowl. He rolled his eyes fondly at his son. Then he hugged T’Challa, the embrace just as genuine and warm as the first. M’Baku’s mouth formed a miserable line out of his father’s sight.

T’Challa staggered back when he was released. “Will your wife be joining us?” he asked, looking around the room. He had seen pictures of her in M’Baku’s room, had known her to be his mother just by her eyes. When M’Baru stiffened, and M’Baku barked an angry sound that faded into a hiss, T’Challa realized why those depictions of her had featured such a young woman.

“I’m--I’m so sorry--” he sputtered, backing away from the seat he been gestured to take.

M’Baru’s sadness subsided into the carefully controlled sorrow expected of a leader. He smiled fondly at T’Challa. “It is alright. It is nice to think she will come crashing through those doors any minute with snow in her hair, but she is with me always, in here.” M’Baru placed his palm over his heart. He touched T’Challa’s cheek. “An apology is not necessary; you are learning about our family, and we certainly don’t know all about yours. Right, son?”

“Yes, father.” M’Baku’s tone was wavering, a kettle about to boil over. He sat without being invited to, tore a piece of bread from the loaf, and stuffed it into his mouth.

Sighing, M’Baru sat at the head of the table. That left T’Challa to sit to M’Baku’s right, a setting no doubt created because of M’Baku’s claims of their mutual affection. Under the Jabari lord’s watchful eyes, then, T’Challa took his seat, laced his fingers together with M’Baku’s over the table, and squeezed lightly.

Something relaxed in T’Challa from the simple contact. Yet he could still feel the anguish and nervousness rolling off of M’Baku everywhere they touched, from their elbows to interlaced hands, and he squeezed again. “I’m sorry,” he repeated under his breath. Intimately. M’Baku’s chest rose as his breath caught in a tacit snarl. He controlled his features into a sad smile.

“Don’t worry about everything so much,” he said, loud enough for his father’s ears. “We are glad to have you here with us. That is enough.” T’Challa was surprised he managed to say it with such civility.

“Yes we are!” M’Baru declared, clapping his hands together. It seemed to be the cue to bring out more food; soon, the table was piled with various seafoods, vegetables, salads, fruits, and breads.

Everyone helped themselves. “This is really good,” T’Challa said, smiling. “We don’t eat a lot of seafood in the city. I’m looking forward to changing that.”

M’Baru smiled back, but there was also a mischievous glint in his eyes. He made a motion like he was elbowing M’Baku, though he was too far away to be touched, and said, “See what you’ll be missing.”

T’Challa blinked. He glanced at M’Baku’s plate, and then his own. M’Baru must have noticed, because he pointed his fork and laughed. “My son has recently decided to become a vegetarian. All his life eating fish from our village fishermen, and then he spends one day working with them. He came home and told me he would never touch meat again. Ba!” He took a bite of his filet to accentuate the point. “I respect the decision,” he continued after, “as I could never survive on just leaves.”

Chuckling, T’Challa pushed his own collection of seafood around his plate, soaking it in the various sauces with which it had been served. M’Baku’s expression was caught between annoyance at his father and contentment for his ‘just leaves,’ which was really a heaping plate of vegetables and various plant proteins, enough to sustain the amount of energy M’Baku exerted just by _existing_. T’Challa eyed M’Baku’s shoulders--they were hidden beneath his furs, but after their sparring session, T’Challa knew them all too well--and briefly imagined M’Baku out on the river, maybe shirtless, lifting cages or boats or nets.

He speared his salmon a little too aggressively. “My father looks forward to our markets merging.”

“And you?”

“I look forward to the people who will meet through it, the spreading of culture. I am… unconcerned with money. Father says I will be when I am older.”

M’Baru’s laugh rumbled pleasantly through the room. “It is a king’s burden,” he agreed. “But princes should focus on more pleasurable pursuits.” After giving their linked hands a wide smile, he leaned back and resumed eating, eyes sparkling.

M’Baku shot his father an outraged look, yet all M’Baru did was laugh.

T’Challa had piled his plate high and was still working through it, hoping that if he was busy eating, he wouldn’t have to field more questions about his relationship with M’Baku. He realized his plan would not work out when, before his first bite, M’Baru asked if they had enjoyed their day together.

Swallowing, T’Challa felt his face grow hot as he thought of a suitable response. “Illuminating,” was what he finally settled on; he could _feel_ M’Baku roll his eyes. “I only mean,” T’Challa clarified after a sip of water, “that I learned much today. More than I think almost anyone in Wakanda knows of the Jabari. I hope to share this with my friends, as well as my family.”

M’Baru smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “And have you learned more about my son?”

T’Challa realized the implication. _More than anyone in Wakanda_. And yet he had not. He hated the desire that rose up in him, sudden and raw, and looked away from M’Baru. “Perhaps. He’s kinder than he lets on.”

M’Baku made a suffering noise in the back of his throat. T’Challa and M’Baru laughed in unison, and it was infectious enough that soon M’Baku cracked the smallest of smiles. The atmosphere relaxed in the room and talk turned to Wakanda, of the Queen’s health, of Shuri. T’Challa was more than happy to gush about Shuri. M’Baku even seemed genuinely warmed by T’Challa’s love for her, and loosened up enough to offer well-wishes and words of encouragement that T’Challa would be a good brother to her. T’Challa’s heart was full by the time he finished his meal.

The feeling did not last long after.

After dinner, M’Baku excused himself and T’Challa back to the prince’s quarters. M’Baru smiled happily, winked. Guilt twisted knots into T’Challa’s stomach as he trailed after his fiance. He began to ask M’Baku what he wanted to do for the rest of the night that perhaps did not involve staying in his room, but stopped when he saw the cold expression on his face. Anxiety turned T’Challa’s stomach in knots.

“Your _royal tutors_ didn’t tell you my mother was dead?” M’Baku spat as soon as they were alone in his room, hands curled into fists at his sides.

“ _You_ didn't tell me either,” T’Challa accused. M’Baku couldn’t retort, he only curled his lip, so T’Challa pressed on. “And you weren’t very kind to your father.”

“I love my father very much. He made those comments purposefully, to rile me. It was all a joke to him, entertaining his son’s future husband, acting like he didn’t… _care_ at all about her!” He picked up one of the smaller Hanuman statues, one carved by M’Baru, and readied himself to hurl it across the room.

T’Challa rushed over and clasped his hands around M’Baku’s fist. He could feel M’Baku shaking through his own body; their hands were frozen between them, although their eyes strayed constantly away from one another. T’Challa was suddenly very interested in the bedside table. It was… round, he decided, and short, and completely harmless. M’Baku, with his shoulders square and his feet planted, was not. He wondered why he had not simply overpowered him.

“Let go of me.”

“Don’t break this.”

“Don’t give me orders.”

“You’ll regret it.” T’Challa sighed, curling his fingers between M’Baku’s palm and the idol. “If you break it, you will regret it.”

M’Baku considered him for a moment. All T’Challa could think about was how warm their hands were and how well they fit together, even as they struggled against one another. Finally, M’Baku laughed, a full-bodied, throaty melody that sent T’Challa backward in an attempt to separate their bodies.

“I bet people tell you you’ll be a wise king, mm? Good. You can handle all of the boring things.”

T’Challa marveled that he had been able to tolerate M’Baku only a few moments ago, yet found his blood boiling at the mere sound of his voice at present. “We are meant to rule together _,_ ” T’Challa argued hotly. “Our decisions, our people. But I suppose you want a city brat making all of the calls for your mountain brutes.”

Rounding on him once more, M’Baku jabbed his finger across the divide. It might as well have burrowed right into T’Challa’s chest. “That is _not_ what I said,” he snarled. “What a terrible diplomat you make, Little--”

“Just as you’ll make a terrible husband.” T’Challa gathered himself, exhaling with his eyes closed as his words suffocated them both. Silence clung to them like brambles. T’Challa said, “I’m leaving. Nisale kakuhle, M’Baku.”

M’Baku made no attempt to stop him, and T’Challa did not look back to even check if he wanted to.

Their next two months of visits were cordial at best, cold at worst. They chose public meeting places that discouraged conversation. The theater, the movies, and the training grounds were safe choices.T’Challa found it difficult to enjoy the plays and films with M’Baku fuming beside him, but eventually found a way to settle into the grudge; when they fought, it was unrestrained, pure. T’Challa returned home with his fair share of bloody lips and black eyes. Ramonda both scolded and fussed over his wounds, while T’Chaka frowned and lectured. But somehow it was better than before. After a fight T’Challa felt as if he had learned more about M’Baku than a conversation allowed. And Okoye stopped trying to step in the ring to protect her future king after a while.

They were grabbing lunch outside of the theater when T’Challa decided to remind M’Baku, “I’ll be seventeen soon.” _Three weeks_ , he added to himself, surprised at the closeness of the date. He poked at his yam and stuck a forkful in his mouth.

M’Baku hummed thoughtfully. “And we’ll be married the year after.” He stuck his fork in T’Challa’s plate and stole some food, eyes bright. T’Challa thought he should probably be offended but just laughed, moved by the uncharacteristic and spontaneous playfulness. Pushing his plate between them, T’Challa motioned for M’Baku--who had already finished his own lunch--to share the rest of his food. M’Baku hesitated a moment before taking the offer.

“I didn’t like the movie,” he said unprompted.

T’Challa nodded. “The originals are better.” He waited to say more. Glad as he was to get along, he was cautious to speak to M’Baku when his idea of conversation was constant mockery. When M’Baku didn’t say anything, either, they both laughed.

“I guess I have been too hard on you, little prince,” M’Baku admitted, “After all, I did not know about your uncle.”

T’Challa nodded. M’Baku had asked after N’Jobu a few weeks ago at the palace when they had witnessed a War Dog initiation ceremony. The War Dog program interested him, and he had known T’Challa’s uncle had been a part of it. He had not known N’Jobu had also died a part of it.

“We have much to learn about one another, and our histories,” T’Challa conceded. “But let’s not forget we can do exactly that right now.” He pushed his plate fully across the table so M’Baku could finish the food. “Who are you, M’Baku?”

M’Baku grinned. He chewed his lip thoughtfully and then answered, “Prince of the Jabari. Son of Lord M’Baru. A warrior. A student.”

“A leader,” T’Challa added. “And a stubborn ape.”

M’Baku mocked offense. He grabbed his chest, and, eyes wide, feigned a wounded gasp. T’Challa smiled, and then tried to bite back a laugh by sticking his tongue between his teeth. It didn’t help; if anything, it made it worse, because he caught M’Baku staring, and it took them right back to silence.

“And I’m yours, I guess,” M’Baku said, just to fill the silence. Five words, and T’Challa felt like his lungs had been removed. He tugged at his sleeves under the table. It was too hot suddenly.

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “What about me?

“You? Oh,” M’Baku started, “you, little prince, are nothing but trouble.”


	6. Five

King T’Chaka interrupted his son’s studies in a hurry, setting T’Challa and his tutor on edge. They both stood, saluted, and awaited the king’s announcement. T’Challa surprised himself by asking, “What’s wrong? Is M’Baku alright?”

His father smiled. “M’Baku is fine. Although I hate to interrupt your lessons, we have a special guest, and I thought you’d want to wash up before her arrival.” Patting T’Challa’s head, he thanked the tutor and then gestured for them to walk out together.

T’Challa glanced down at himself as they walked. He was still in his running clothes; he’d misjudged his time before class and taken too long to get back that morning and change. He blushed, ducking his head. “Thank you, baba.”

They chatted idly of the weather, of the markets. T’Challa had many questions dancing on the tip of his tongue but held them back. It was clearly important for his father to surprise him. 

That surprise was ruined almost immediately. As soon as T’Chaka left the room, T’Challa’s kimoyo beads alerted him of an incoming call. Okoye’s head and shoulders floated above his palm in mere seconds, and before he could even greet her, she said, “I hear Nakia is coming home today.”

T’Challa’s eyebrows shot up and Okoye laughed. “I didn’t know,” he said.

“I see.”

“Am I that obvious? I will have to work on my poker face.” T’Challa paced over to his closet and pulled open the doors. He held various shirts in front of Okoye while they spoke, and she nodded or frowned to show her opinion.

Eventually they settled on a long purple and green tunic and purple trousers, understated and classic. “To impress her,” Okoye suggested.

“Do I want to impress her?”

Okoye rolled her eyes.

T’Challa clicked his tongue. Of course he did. She was his oldest friend, and they had not seen one another for a year because of her outreach and espionage work. They had also barely spoken due to the overly secretive nature of the job. While Nakia had left to explore and understand the outside world, T’Challa had remained in the Wakanda to read about it.

“Do you still love her?”

The question jarred him sharpy back into the present. He stared dumbly at Okoye’s projection. Her lips were set, eyes wide, as she waited impatiently for his jaw to assume its normal position on his face. “I…”

“Please, T’Challa; you were inconsolable for a month after she was assigned. W’Kabi shares my concern.”

“W’Kabi, eh?” he teased, in the most obvious projection he could manage. His mind was racing. Nakia was his playmate, his childhood crush, his first kiss, his first lover. And she was coming home.

Okoye sighed. “You have some things to consider, my prince.” She ended the transmission.

T’Challa sat back on his bed. His clothes wrinkled in his hands as he stared at the tapestry on his bedroom wall: a black panther, contorted into a map of Wakanda, snarling as it protected them. As it kept outsiders away.

Jabariland was not on that map.

He took a shower.

Nakia and her mother arrived for lunch. They landed at the palace’s airstrip, with the royal family and Dora Milaje as their greeting party. Shuri whined happily at the sound of the Wakanda ships overhead. Her chubby fingers reached for them as they hovered in the sky, and her bright eyes followed them downward. Ramonda bounced her in her arms.

T’Challa was filled with the same exuberance, though hardly at this familiar sight. With his hands clasped behind his back, he stood rigid and tall, but he could not stop his feet from shifting on the pavement. He caught a wink from T’Chaka and chuckled at his own foolishness.

Suddenly she was there, she was walking toward him, her hair wrapped in a long scarf, her jaw bearing a bruise he wanted to ask about, and his mouth stopped working. “H...hi,” he uttered, and just stood there.

Nakia’s brown eyes sparkled. She hugged him, and the tension of their missed communication and her absence all melted during that embrace. The adults gave formal greetings around them, chattered, and marveled at the new princess. T’Challa held Nakia close and she held him.

He offered Nakia his arm. She took it. It was easy and natural to fall into step beside her, as if they’d never stopped crawling around the tunnels beneath the palace. T’Challa’s heart swelled looking at her. Pride, joy, some pain; but ultimately a sense of comfort filled him.

“You are getting married,” she said as they followed their parents. The Dora formed a circle around the entire group, and Okoye had ended up close to T’Challa. She inhaled sharply to his right. Nakia looked at her quizzically from his left.

“You have been gone a long time,” he answered neutrally. “I want to tell you everything, and I want to hear everything, as well.”

“There are so many adventures, but also much I cannot tell you, for your own protection. At least, that's what I’m told. You know I hate keeping secrets from you.” She reached out to touch his cheek but stopped herself. “Start with M’Baku!” she pleaded with a grin, jabbing him lightly with her elbow. “I have heard stories.”

Groaning, T’Challa shook his head. “Where do I even begin!” He tugged at his ear, smiled.

Nakia smiled back, replying, “Anywhere.”

“Very well. Anywhere…” His eyes slid to Okoye, whose face was properly blank for the Dora, but whose eyes betrayed that she was putting all of her effort into not laughing. T’Challa made a few indistinct sounds before he settled on, “It’s strange; I haven’t known him long now, but I feel that we’re very close. Not in the sense that we share our fears and ideas about the future, but we know one another well as who we are in the present. M’Baku is… He’s so strong-mentally and physically. He has beaten me in our sparring sessions more than I like to admit. And he is wise, Nakia, which he does not like to admit. He prefers jokes and being brutish. M’Baku has barriers as strong as vibranium but I sense he wants to let them down sometimes. I think…” He trailed off when he noticed Nakia eyeing him happily.

Nakia poked his nose. “It sounds like your parents have made a good decision.”

Blushing, T’Challa realized he had been rambling. “No, you didn’t let me finish--” But he didn’t know what else to say.

Maybe she was right.

Eventually, Nakia and T’Challa split off from the main group and found their way to a collection of boulders overlooking much of Wakanda’s border. It was their favorite spot, and the path was still worn smooth where their feet had traveled it. T’Challa’s footprints, more recent, were deep in the earth, and he followed them almost exactly. They sat just so Nakia could feel the Wakandan sun on her face for a while. But it did not take long for her curiosity to get the better of her, and she started again on the single topic T’Challa wanted to avoid.

“Have you slept with him yet?” Nakia asked, trailing her fingers down T’Challa’s arm curiously. He looked over at her and shrugged.

“He has offered.”

“So that’s a no.”

“So that’s a no,” T’Challa echoed. He pulled at a blade of grass. “I do… want to. I’ve thought about it.” T’Challa appreciated the ease with which he could approach Nakia about this; he felt warm, but unashamed, and pressed on, “I don’t want to ask him again, though.”

Nakia laughed. “Why not, T’Challa?” T’Challa loved the way her mouth looked when she said his name. He remembered what it was like to kiss her, and smiled, but pursed his lips when his next thought was of kissing M’Baku instead.

“It’s going to sound ridiculous.”

“Try me.”

T’Challa sighed. “You know I never liked to have sex with you when I was angry, right?” Nakia nodded in response, so T’Challa continued, “Well, I have a feeling M’Baku would just. Make me angry. Say something ridiculous and ruin it. And then where would we be? He barely likes me now. How could we unite the tribes if we can’t even get along outside _and_ inside of our beds?”

Nakia grinned mischievously. “And you think you could stay angry long with that enormous dick around?”

“Nakia!”

“Please, you know I’m right.” She laced their fingers together as they stared out over the horizon. Softly, she added, “I think you care for M’Baku, and I am glad that this will change how isolated Wakanda is from other places. Perhaps… sharing M’Baku’s bed will help him share more of himself with you.”

T’Challa grunted. “You overestimate his charm.”

“I’d like to meet him, decide that for myself.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” His frown turned quickly to a smile as Nakia rested her head on his shoulder. They stayed for a while, taking comfort in one another’s familiar warmth, before T’Challa whispered, “We should find the others.”

“Oh, we’ve missed lunch by now. Let’s go to the market.”

It didn’t take much more convincing for T’Challa to skip the royal luncheon; he and Nakia bought chichinga from a street vendor and settled on a long row of steps to eat. Between bites, T’Challa said, “M’Baku and I had planned kayaking tomorrow. You are welcome to join us.”

“M’Baku can fit inside a kayak?” Nakia asked, laughter bubbling under her words.

T’Challa chuckled. “I guess we’ll find out.”

M’Baku did not fit in a regular kayak, though that hardly mattered. The Jabari made and brought their own boats, firmer and more beautiful than anything Wakanda had ever engineered. M’Baku carried his on his bare shoulder. His arms barely shook under its weight. T’Challa stared long enough that Nakia poked his nose, giggling.

“He _is_ beautiful. Now to discover if he is as delightful as you say.”

Having caught wind of the kayaking venture, and having some stern words for T’Challa after he skipped the family meal, T’Chaka, Ramonda, a collection of Dora, and Nakia’s mother had all elected to join the expedition. They mingled with M’Baru and Jabari warriors on the dock. T’Challa stood a few feet away but was soon pulled in. To his chagrin, he could not eavesdrop on M’Baku and Nakia. He saw her wave, saw M’Baku settle the kayak on the ground while he waited for her. Then he was caught by his mother.

Five minutes later, Nakia marched up to T’Challa, face red, steps heavy, and lips pressed in a tight line. T’Challa put his arm around her and drew her upstream away from the docks and prying eyes.

“What happened?”

“What happened? What happened is your fiance is a selfish, disrespectful _asshole_ T’Challa! He called my work useless. He called our gods false. How your parents could agree to your marrying such an arrogant _brute_ is beyond me.”

“Slow--slow down, Nakia,” T’Challa reasoned. Perplexed, he shot a disapproving look to M’Baku, who shrugged like he wasn’t at fault. T’Challa shook his head.

“He’s never said anything like that to me. You’re not, well, _wrong_ about some things, but I can’t imagine he was serious.”

“Oh, I’m fully aware he said those things out of jealousy, but it doesn’t change the fact that--”

“I’m sorry, _jealousy_?” T’Challa balked.

Nakia fixed him with an incredulous glare. Hands on her hips, she looked back to M’Baku, and then to T’Challa again. “You must be joking.”

“What?”

Nakia threw her hands in the air and marched off, shaking her head. “You are both  _ idiots _ !”

“Nakia!” T’Challa called after her lamely. “Nakia?”

“Why would you do that?” T’Challa snapped when he gave up and decided to confront M’Baku. M’Baku continued his inculpable shrugging routine. He scrutinized his kayak like he had never seen it before. T’Challa, too frustrated to even argue, left him, too.

The kayak trip was made bearable only by the presence of Ramonda, who was happy to indulge T’Challa in his desire to talk exclusively about Shuri. He felt much happier by the time the hours-long expedition was over, albeit sore. All he planned to do was go back to the palace and curl up with Shuri for a much-needed nap. So, after performing his expected duties--the formalities of departure, arranging a time for his visit with M’Baku in Jabariland next week--he did just that.

T’Challa and M’Baku met a week from that Thursday, almost at the same time. T’challa decidedly did not bring up the events of the last visit. M’Baku decided to show T’Challa the rivers and piers beyond the tourist-paved kayaking trails; T’Challa realized that Wakanda’s Warrior Falls fed some of Jabariland’s waters, and he told M’Baku as much.

“Why haven’t you taken me to spar there?”

Shaking his head, T’Challa explained, “The Falls are reserved for ritual combat. It is only when a king is chosen that we visit them.”

“When you become king, will I get to see these Warrior Falls?”

“Yes,” T’Challa said dismissively, not wanting to dwell on it.

M’Baku caught his tone and sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“I know.” T’Challa would only be king when his father died. He was not remotely prepared to consider his ascension.

They passed two fishermen, and T’Challa marveled at their skill in the cold. He was struggling even to flex his fingers. He also marveled at their youth; they were twins, and younger than he was. 

“Uzoma, Urhie,” M’Baku greeted, “This is T’Challa, Prince of Wa--”

M’Baku was interrupted by extremely loud wolf-whistles and cheering that made T’Challa laugh. “These two seem more enthusiastic about our engagement than you do!” He extended his hand to the two fisherman, who took it in turn while still jeering at M’Baku.

“Should we leave you two alone?” the one called Uzoma asked. He winked.

“For your romantic river rendezvous?” quipped Urhie, which earned both a groan and a high-five from his brother.

M’Baku’s smile was effortless. The love he had for his people was strong and obvious, and even when he scolded the twins, he was fond. “Oh, so you lazy bums can slack off the rest of the day? No, Prince T’Challa and I will leave you to your work.”

“You lie, M’Baku, you’re just going to introduce him to your other friends!”

“Yeah, or find a nice, secluded cave…”

Uzoma and Urhie dissolved into giggles despite M’Baku’s criticism that they would scare away all the fish. T’Challa thanked the twins for their time; all little embarrassments aside, the exchange had filled him with happiness and hope for his and M’Baku’s shared future. They continued on side-by-side with a lightness to their steps that had not been present before.

“You know, I have not met any of your friends,” T’Challa said incredulously after they were alone again. He paused. “That is, if you have any?” He smirked when M’Baku rolled his eyes.

“You just did.” He pointed back to the twins for emphasis.

“Yes, but that was circumstantial. I would not have met them if we hadn’t been walking there, at that time…” He trailed off, further explanation unnecessary.

“My friends spend their days working and do not have time to meet other princes.”

The implication stung. “I have friends who work.”

“The Dora Milaje--”

“Not _just_ the Dora Milaje. And they do work, just because it’s for the royal family doesn’t change that. But my best friend is of the Border Tribe.” T’Challa, rounding on M’Baku, stopped him with a hand on his chest. M’Baku looked at it, and then back up to T’Challa. By the look on his face, T’Challa gathered M’Baku wasn’t impressed.

“He doesn’t spend his days in the mountains, but in the fields, protecting the border, tending livestock. It is admirable work. Our people all do admirable work. It doesn’t need to be a contest.”

M’Baku scoffed. “It’s hardly a contest. Your people could never match my tribe.”

“They’re not _your_ people and _my_ people anymore. They’re _our_ people.” T’Challa could feel himself losing his temper and decided just to let it go. Digging his heels into the snow, he snapped his head to the side and asked, “Why is this necessary? All this… posturing! For what!” His voice was higher than he liked, so he cleared his throat.

Though he had more to say, M’Baku interrupted, “I’m sorry.”

“And for another thing--Excuse me, what?”

“I’m sorry,” M’Baku repeated simply. “I am used to…” He sighed. “I am used to Wakandans talking down to us. I’ve worked my entire life to be better. I hate feeling lesser than your people, and it has long effected me, the idea that the Jabari are thought of as uncooperative, cave-dwelling savages by Wakanda. Then you come around, little prince, and get under my skin...” M’Baku looks shocked that he voiced it, and T’Challa decides not to address it, if only to save M’Baku the embarrassment.

Mollified, T’Challa tried not to dwell on the statement. He just nodded his head and resumed his walk. “You know, I’ve never thought that.”

“I know.”

“If anything, I think it is ignorance that separates our people, not any skill or knowledge.”

“I _know_.” M’Baku’s sounded like he was attempting to convince himself as much as T’Challa. Once they make the circle around the river, T’Challa settled on the idea he had been toying with the entire walk.

“Next week. Meet me at the palace. We’re going--” T’Challa pulled up a map on his kimoyo beads and tapped W’Kabi’s homestead. “Here.” He poked M’Baku’s stomach. “And I’ll make sure they have something vegetarian.”

M’Baku crossed his arms, wrinkled his nose, and huffed. “I hate those,” he admitted, waving his palm at the Kimoyo beads. 

“They are very useful.”

“Hm.” He looked out across the river, the calm surface sparkling under the sunlight. “I want yams.”

T’Challa grinned. “Done.”

That night, T’Challa also managed to convince Okoye to accompany him outside of her official capacity, and thus convinced W’Kabi of the whole thing. W’Kabi was so eager he asked T’Challa to move the date up.

“Calm down, she’s not even interested in you. I’m sure she just wants the chance to embarass me. That aside, we meet once a week, every week, no more.”

“Why?”

T’Challa had no answer to that.

The evening before his birthday, T’Challa met Okoye and M’Baku at the palace, and they made their way to the Border Tribe together in one of the palace ships.

W’Kabi’s birth mother, Danai, met them outside. Her hair was freshly shaved, clean, intricate patterns gracing the sides and back. M’Baku complimented her on it and she smiled graciously. “Thank you. My wife will be flattered. She has been practicing on W’Kabi, and her attempts were… less than appreciated.”

T’Challa choked back a laugh, remembering Ruwadzano’s first--and disastrous--attempt at doing something interesting with W’Kabi’s hair. He had worn a knit hat over it for months. Danai tossed him a grin, and then cocked her head at M’Baku, who had walked ahead, his swagger diluted somewhat. T’Challa glanced at him curiously. When his attention moved back to Danai, she was giving him a thumbs up. T’Challa blushed.

Okoye and Nakia had stayed back some for M’Baku’s introduction, but rushed Danai as soon as he had excused himself from her side. Nakia introduced Okoye, Okoye shed some of her Dora-trained rigidity, and T’Challa moved ahead to figure out what had captured M’Baku so intensely.

He found M’Baku at the edge of the rhino pen. His body seemed stuck between fight and flight: his back was straight, chest puffed, yet his leg twitched each time the beast dug at the earth.

M’Baku barely made a sound as T’Challa walked over to him and touched his hand lightly to the small of his back. “I was afraid, too, my first time seeing one.”

“I’m not afraid.” The rhino grunted as if disagreeing, and M’Baku eyed it suspiciously.

T’Challa chuckled. Then, taking M’Baku’s hand, he murmured, “She trusts me. Would you like to pet her?” He squeezed M’Baku’s knuckles when the other prince didn’t answer. “Do _you_ trust me?” His voice was softer than the breeze.

M’Baku turned to him. He stepped closer so that their hands were trapped together between their chests. “I do,” he answered.

A loud, “Hey!” surprised them as it W’Kabi called from the house. “Hey, your _worshipfullness_ , dinner isn’t going to make itself!”

T’Challa sighed when M’Baku dropped his hand. Gripping the fence, he leaned back on his heels, and then rocked forward with a groan. W’Kabi reached his spot on the fence and looked innocently between T’Challa and M’Baku, completely unaware he had ruined the moment. T’Challa huffed a sigh.

“W’Kabi, M’Baku.” He left them to introduce themselves further.

“He’s so grumpy.” W’Kabi said as T’Challa walked away. He _tsk_ ed and M’Baku laughed. T’Challa pretended not to hear them and headed straight for the kitchen, where he found everyone else. Much of the dinner had already been prepared--the border tribe were fans of long meals, things that required overnight marination, slow-roasting, or hours of baking. T’Challa, Nakia, and Okoye helped with the finishing touches and setting the table more than anything else. Still, it was nice having something to do while W’Kabi and M’Baku undoubtedly sized each other up.

“Is W’Kabi giving him the whole ‘if you break his heart I kill you’ speech?” Nakia leaned in to ask, barely masking a snort. T’Challa tossed his hands in the air uselessly.

“As long as they don’t kill each other, I don’t care.”

Nakia pursed her lips and hummed her disbelief.

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

T’Challa shoved her playfully, and she shoved back. They were close to giggling when W’Kabi and M’Baku finally joined the rest of the group. Both of them looked steely but also resolved, and that was just fine with T’Challa. M’Baku fixed sharp eyes on Nakia when he saw her next to T’Challa. His jaw set, he made sure to bump her shoulder when he passed, and it knocked her away from T’Challa.

“Sorry,” he said gruffly.

Nakia didn’t take the bait, but the tension remained until Ruwadzano’s voice cut through, “Now, there is no arguing under this roof, I’m sure.”

M’Baku’s cheeks colored. “No,” he muttered.

“I thought not.” Her smile was brilliant. “Thank you for visiting us, Prince M’Baku. We’ve heard much about you. Mostly from W’Kabi, though, so I cannot say I know you well yet.”

Waving his hand, W’Kabi puffed out his cheeks and made a dismissive noise. “My news is sourced directly from the palace. I have no bias whatsoever.”

Everyone, including M’Baku, laughed, and the room was light with the warmth of family again. The mood did not shift again throughout the whole dinner. W’Kabi’s mothers kept the food and conversation flowing, and the rain falling softly on the roof was a perfect compliment to their light chatter. They sat for a long time after they had finished eating just to talk. Eventually everyone stood to help clear the table, but Danai insisted she and her wife could finish cleaning up by themselves. W’Kabi, vibrating with energy, ran outside to the rhino pen--Okoye followed with more dignity, though it was clear she was equally thrilled to spend time with the animals. M’Baku approached slowly. T’Challa stayed with him.

The ground in the pen was still wet from the day’s rain. All of them were willing to sit anyway--the stars were bright and begging to be looked at--but W’Kabi tapped T’Challa’s wrist. “Hold on. Help me get some blankets.”

Scoffing, T’Challa waved his hand. “You can carry them by yourself.”

“It’s good for a prince to see what we common people do out on the border,” W’Kabi joked, pulling on T’Challa’s sleeve. “Come get the blankets.”

T’Challa raised his eyebrows at W’Kabi’s hardly-subtle attempt to get him away from the group and stood. “Fine.” When they were inside the house, T’Challa said, “You went too far with that. Now it is suspicious.”

“M’Baku has been waiting all night to get Okoye or me to tell him stories about you. But I have more pressing things to attend to. Like why you have not told me yet.”

“Told you what?” Crossing his arms, T’Challa leaned against the wall and stared out of the window. M’Baku had his hand on one of the rhino’s backs, and he was stargazing and laughing at something Okoye had said; his chest was shaking from it, and T’Challa was sure the story was one he didn’t want shared, but found in that moment that he didn’t care.

“Unbelievable.” W’Kabi threw a blanket in T’Challa’s face--he barely reacted in time to catch it. T’Challa made a vaguely incredulous sound but continued staring. Scoffing, W’Kabi grabbed his shoulder and pointed to M’Baku, who was stil absorbed in conversation with Okoye. T’Challa was now certain they were talking about him. Okoye kept making hand motions toward the house, and he had watched M’Baku’s mouth form the word ‘little’ at least twice.

“You,” W’Kabi paused for significance, long enough that T’Challa pressed his lips firm and turned to look at him. W’Kabi laughed. “You are in love with M’Baku.”

T’Challa rubbed his neck. He ignored the tightness in his chest and said simply, “No.”

“Don’t lie to me, T’Challa, I know that look.”

T’challa tsked. “What _look_?” Yet his heart skipped a beat, reminding him his outrage was a lie. His face burned as his blood raced through his veins, loud as river rapids in his ears, but no louder than the flashes of memories that drowned him. Their first meeting, the first time they touched. M’Baku’s laugh and smile. T’Challa wanted to hate W’Kabi for voicing what he had tried so hard to suppress. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to love M’Baku; he just knew M’Baku wouldn’t--maybe couldn’t--love him back. He wanted to lie to his best friend for the first time in his life. Instead, he asked, “Do you think he knows?”

“No. He’s so dense. With that big head of his, I don’t know what you see in him. Other than the muscles. He’s so stubborn… but wise, I guess. Oh!” W’Kabi wrinkled his nose and then sniffed. “You have a type.”

“That’s why I’ll never fall in love with you, because you’re an idiot.”

“My prince, you are too kind.” W’Kabi stuck his tongue out at T’Challa. 

Laden with soft blankets and hot cocoa, T’Challa and W’Kabi rejoined the others. T’Challa’s heart seized when he made even brief eye contact with M’Baku. He hung on every syllable of M’Baku’s thanks, blushing at how smitten he was with the strength and smoothness of that voice. He felt like a fool and a coward, and he sat with the blanket covering all of his limbs and thrown over his head so he could wallow in his shame for a bit.

Okoye and Nakia, co-conspirators that they were, did not allow this. They complained that T’Challa was hogging the blanket, or asked enough questions about Shuri, that he was drawn away from his misery and back to his friends. He spread his blanket out near M’Baku’s so they could stretch out on their backs next to each other. Beside them, Okoye and W’Kabi mirrored the pose, though with even less space between their bodies than T’Challa could bring himself to allow with his future husband.

That felt even worse than the wallowing. And he was shivering. He took a huge gulp of hot chocolate to discourage both feelings and ended up coughing.

M’Baku made a discontent but not unamused sound before throwing his arm around T’Challa’s shoulders and pulling him close. “I will keep you warmer than that,” he reasoned, and the words rumbled from his chest into T’Challa’s.

“To our future kings!” W’Kabi shouted. Mugs clinked together around their circle.

It could have been the moonlight, but T’Challa swore he saw M’Baku smile at that.

Over the course of the night they discovered that the Jabari had different names for constellations T’Challa had known all his life. He learned them in M’Baku’s language, trying them a few times until he was satisfied with their pronunciation. M’Baku only teased him lightly for his butchered attempts. The way his eyes shone at the successes was more than worth a few barbed words.

They also learned that Okoye was not a fan of lizards, Nakia had learned two new languages while abroad, and that W’Kabi had forgotten almost every astrology lesson he’d ever been taught. T’Challa was fascinated by his friends. He closed his eyes, overcome with the love he had for each and every one of the people surrounding him.

“Little prince, wake up.”

“Mm?” T’Challa stirred, sliding his cheek against M’Baku’s solid bicep. He blushed and then raised his eye, blinking until his vision cleared.

“You can never take him to those nightclubs in South Korea you told us about,” Okoye said to Nakia. “He’ll fall asleep.” The girls laughed.

Nakia called for their ship, and it reached them in minutes. They all climbed in and had a good laugh as W’Kabi tried to help Okoye in, and his hand was, unsurprisingly, rejected outright. W’Kabi stepped back on the ground but was hardly discouraged. T’Challa could tell he was already chastising himself for his stupidity at the same rate he was forming a new plan to court Okoye.

The ride back to the palace was comfortable. A pleasant silence settled among the four of them. When they landed, Okoye was the first to depart, hugging Nakia and T’Challa and offering a hand to M’Baku. He shook it, and with a nod, Okoye left to join the other Dora in their compound. Nakia departed soon after, kissing T’Challa on the cheek. M’Baku cleared his throat pointedly and she blinked back. T’Challa realized he was trapped between M’Baku’s glare and Nakia’s steady, level gaze. 

“Please, tell me when you are home.”

“Of course. Good night, T’Challa. Prince M’Baku.”

T’Challa watched until she had safely boarded the palace train. As he did so, he told M’Baku, “You must know you have no cause to be jealous. She _was_ my lover. But she is now only my best friend.”

M’Baku sniffed and straightened his back. “I’m not jealous.”

T’Challa barked a laugh. “Yes, and I am not the Prince of Wakanda.”

“You think too highly of yourself.”

“Oh,  _ I  _ do?” T’Challa sidled up to M’Baku, a wide grin on his face and laughter coloring his tone.

M’Baku looked sideways, strictly ignoring how close T’Challa was to him, but then stuck his tongue in his cheek and looked down, smiling. He bounced slightly in place while he added. “Well. Not without cause.”

T’Challa had no response. His grin faltered and his expression softened. Looking up at M’Baku, he let his gaze fall to M’Baku’s lips.

“I, uh, I enjoyed meeting W’Kabi’s family. They were kind to me. More than I deserved.” He laughed uncomfortably and pulled his gaze away. A sharp stab of pain in T’Challa’s chest caused him to look away, too.

“Yeah.”

Realizing his mistake, M’Baku lifted his hand, slid his thumb across T’Challa’s cheekbone, and leaned forward. “Thank you, T’Challa,” he murmured sincerely. Breath catching, T’Challa tightened his grip on M’Baku’s arm and waited. But M’Baku pulled this thumb away a moment later and stepped back, his expression all at once becoming unreadable.

“What time is it?” He asked. T’Challa was taken aback by the question. He turned his wrist to check his kimoyo beads, his head cloudy. “Uh, midnight.”

“In a year you’ll call me husband,” M’Baku said.

_In a year, will you love me?_ T’Challa thought. He couldn’t find the courage to ask.


	7. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back!! We are FINALLY on fall break, so when we are not working on essays and such, we're going to do our best to write and write and write in order to get these chapters out with shorter gaps. Thank you for sticking with us! We love you all.

T’Challa’s first thought when he woke was of M’Baku. He was warm, comfortably so, and he knew it was from his dream. It was not like the others he had been having; M’Baku moaning, begging, saying things T’Challa wouldn’t even repeat to Nakia if she asked. He flushed thinking of them. But as he stared out the window, watching the sun rise over Wakanda, his thoughts drifted back to the fantasy of his arms curled around M’Baku, the both of them asleep and dreaming in the same bed, his arms trapped against M’Baku’s broad chest and his head in the crook of his neck.

T’Challa sighed and swung his legs over the bed. The floor was cold against his feet. He stood without flinching.

Having fallen asleep bursting with nervous energy, T’Challa was surprised he felt so calm. It felt like any other day, any other visit with M’Baku. It was their fourteenth. He wanted that number to matter somehow--he wanted to count back and see how many it had taken for him to fall in love.

He wasn’t sure he could. But, even though he knew it was useless, he  _ was  _ sure he had fallen completely for M’Baku, every stupid part of him. T’Challa turned the shower on, stepped into the water, and let out a grunt of frustration that couldn’t even be soothed by the warmth of the steam. He scrubbed his skin more violently than he needed to, like he could physically scrape away the feelings he had for the Jabari prince.

But T’Challa was still in love when he dried off. When he dressed, packed, called Okoye on her kimoyo beads.

“M’Baku will be there soon. The Jabari just arrived at the palace.” It was the first thing she said to him, no greeting or pause for a question.

T’Challa scoffed. “That is not why I called you.”

“Please, my prince--with all due respect, you are a terrible liar.”

“There is nothing wrong with being an honest man,” he tried, trying to steer the subject from M’Baku. His heart was already beating in his throat at the thought of seeing him so soon. He was arriving with his father since he and T’Chaka had a meeting. That meant he needed to get to the throne room soon, or he would risk letting M’Baku catch him off guard--

“T’Challa?” Okoye asked in a way that inferred it wasn’t the first time she was asking.

“Sorry.”

Shaking her head fondly, Okoye made a sound somewhere between a laugh and sigh. “You should head down to the throne room. You won’t want to be late. I overheard the other Dora and they intend to have you leave before sundown, so if you want some time with W’Kabi, after M’Baku, you may want to hurry up. Oh, and happy birthday, of course. And T’Challa?”

Processing the information, T’Challa nodded a few times before clearing his throat and asking, “Thank you. What is it?”

“If I don’t see you before your journey--well, come home soon.”

T’Challa nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He was not sure how long he would be gone, but he knew he would dearly miss Okoye and her sharp wit. Nakia he had said farewell to many times, and knew he would continue to do so for years. W’Kabi he could barely stomach saying goodbye to, even for a brief time. All at once he was both glad to have such love in his life and resentful, wondering why Bast felt it necessary to separate him from them.

_ So you can prove how much you love them _ , his father’s voice said in his head.

T’Challa took a deep breath and headed down to the throne room. He timed it well; arriving just before the Jabari did, he was able to watch M’Baku walk in, his confidence preceding him. He was dressed in all white, the material hugging his arms, the lines of muscles T’Challa had dreamed of tracing with his fingers--or tongue, he wasn’t picky--clear beneath the fabric.

Ever a diplomat, T’Challa ignored those lines so he could properly greet all members of the Jabari party. M’Baku had caught him staring, though; he didn’t say anything, but T’Challa could read the smirk on his face just fine. When the pleasantries were over with, Lord M’Baru and other representatives joined T’Chaka and other Wakandans in the throne room, and T’Challa was left with his fiance.

M’Baku crowded into T’Challa’s space immediately. Sparing a glance down the hall, he leaned down so he could whisper, “Were you thinking about fucking me?”

T’Challa--rather proudly--said “no” and ducked away. Sticking his tongue between his teeth, he danced away and beckoned M’Baku toward him. Cocking his head, M’Baku followed, intrigued. T’Challa did not mean for it to come off as playful, but he was excited--he knew what he needed to do in that moment.

“You aren’t planning an assassination, are you? Okoye isn’t waiting around a corner with a spear?”

“Why would you say something like that?” T’Challa stopped moving and frowned.

M’Baku shrugged. “You’re not usually so happy to be around me.”

T’Challa thought he had rather disproved that the last few visits, but he let it go. He waited for M’Baku to reach him and fell into step beside him, smiling at the confusion still painting M’Baku’s features.

“I’m just happy to be rid of you, of course. An indeterminable amount of time without visits.” T’Challa’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

M’Baku scowled. “I still find this whole thing strange. Why would your rite of passage be so early? Our warriors do not take theirs until they are eighteen.”

Shrugging, T’Challa replied, “That is just how it has always been done. I believe it is so that one may be ready to take the throne at eighteen, should it be necessary. We would not want a king who had not yet earned his place as a warrior.”

M’Baku nodded. “That seems… reasonable. As opposed to your leading me all the way through this palace again. I am tired of tours.”

“There is someone I would like you to meet.” T’Challa smiled happily. 

“I thought we were past meeting friends.”

“She’s not a friend,” T’Challa corrected, heart bursting when he stopped in front of the door, “she’s family.”

M’Baku’s entire posture changed. A brilliant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he straightened as if he was expecting to hold an audience with the king and queen. Eyes bright, he nodded toward the door, then fidgeted in place. “Your sister?”

“My sister!” T’Challa announced proudly. Swinging the door open quietly, he snaked his hand around M’Baku’s wrist when he noticed he wasn’t moving. “She doesn’t bite. Well, she bit me once, but not for any malicious reason.”

“That’s…” M’Baku, voice soft, rolled his head to the side and laughed quietly. T’Challa could tell he wanted to say something else, and wished desperately that he would, but M’Baku continued instead, “ridiculous, of course. I am not afraid of your baby sister.”

“Sh--.”

“I know her name is Shuri.” M’Baku rolled his eyes fondly. “You only talk about her every time I see you.”

T’Challa was neither planning to refute that fact nor ashamed of it, so he just grinned. He was, however, spared explaining to M’Baku that he only did so because he was excited for M’Baku to become a part of Shuri’s life; it wasn’t that he was able to hold his tongue, but that he was mercifully interrupted.

“Oh! T’Challa!” The nurse holding Shuri beamed at her other ward, rocking Shuri in her arms.

“Hashiki,” T’Challa greeted warmly. “Hashiki was my nurse as well,” he explained to M’Baku, who inclined his head to her respectfully.

Formalities were forsaken for the rest of the conversation, during which T’Challa spent most of his time attempting to stop Hashiki from telling ridiculous stories of his infancy. Eventually, she left T’Challa and M’Baku to Shuri, informing them to call her on her kimoyo beads should they need her. Shuri cooed happily in T’Challa’s arms.

When the door closed, T’Challa shifted his full attention to his sister. “She is only four months old and already so strong.” T’Challa beamed down at Shuri, marveling at her bright eyes, her small frame, her bubbling happiness. There was not a thing he did not love about her. Overwhelmed, T’Challa felt tears prick at his eyes and laughed. “When my mother was pregnant with Shuri,” he said, rocking her in his arms a bit and looking across the room to M’Baku, “I could not wait for her to be born. Now that she is, I almost wish she could go back, safe and warm and untroubled by the world.”

M’Baku smiled. “I think this is not so much trouble for her. A family who loves her like this. A brother like you.”

T’Challa swallowed, feeling something heavy settle in his chest. He blinked, his vision blurry for a moment--his eyes were wet, he realized, and he sniffed before clearing his throat. The room seemed so quiet. M’Baku waited.

“Would you like to hold her?” T’Challa asked gently.

M’Baku, eyebrows raised, replied, “Really?”

“Yes.” T’Challa shuffled Shuri in his arms and held her out a bit, indicating for M’Baku to come take her. M’Baku walked over slowly, almost incredulously, his movement so hesitant T’Challa wavered for a moment. But then Shuri was out of his arms, and he did not feel as empty as he thought he would without her. Still, he added, “If you drop her, I swear on Bast that I will end your life.”

“You could  _ try _ ,” M’Baku said in a sing-song voice, rocking Shuri. She cooed and reached her hands out, placing them on M’Baku’s cheek. T’Challa was annoyed that she was responding to him so well. He curled his lip.

“I’m serious, M’Baku.”

M’Baku, surprised by his tone, looked up. “I understand.” His voice was gentle, calm. T’Challa’s chest swelled again. 

Lifting his arm, T’Challa nearly brushed his fingers against M’Baku’s cheekbone and at the last moment managed to divert himself to stroking Shuri’s growing hair. If M’Baku noticed--and T’Challa was certain he had--he did not comment or look up from Shuri.

Moments passed, and T’Challa wondered if M’Baku’s lips were as soft as they looked. He wondered how he could be so gentle, with hands better fit for battle and a similar disposition. He wondered, if he kissed M’Baku now, what would come of it.

So he didn’t.

He let their time elapse, let Shuri fall asleep, let Hashiki and then his mother and father resume their care of her. The Jabari collected M’Baku, and T’Challa did not allow his goodbye to weigh more heavily than any of his others.

All he wanted to do was sleep. However, before sunset, he had to finish packing--he had already put if off to long--and set out with the Dora Milaje. Once he returned to his room, T’Challa began to throw his things haphazardly into a bag, anticipating his journey much less than he had earlier. He felt much more alone, too.

As if on cue, a knock came at the door, and T’Challa was startled out of his declining mood. Ramonda came wrapped in white and blue, her hair braided elaborately on her head. The shawl she wore was beaded and clinked musically with every step. She swept T’Challa into her arms as if he was still a boy, and he was old enough to know how precious it was that she would do this. He hugged her back fiercely.

“You should not worry, mama.”

She held his face in her hands and whispered, “I am your mother. The panther will always protect her young.”

“Yes, but the panther also sends her children away when it is time,” he reasoned.

Ramonda smiled and brought him back to her chest. She had some advice to give, all of which T’Challa clung to reverently. After all, she’d waited while her husband perform the rites of passage, had listened to him after. Princes were not allowed to disclose all that happened during their journey, yet Ramonda knew what to say regardless to comfort T’Chaka. She imparted many of those same words to her son.

The gift she gave was a shimmering purple robe, one that resembled the colors and sheen of the Heart-Shaped Herb. They were to be worn at the start of his ceremony before any of the physical tests.

“This is the tradition,” Ramonda said. Her smile was wide and adoring as she added, “but you will get another gift when you return home.”

“Thank you, mama.  _ Ndiyakuthanda _ .”

He kissed her cheek, they embraced, and then she left. T’Challa set the box aside.

T’Chaka arrived in his vibranium panther suit, a ceremonial sash draped across his chest and waist. “You are worried,” he chastised. Since he stood, T’Challa rose to meet him.

“I’m upset about leaving,” T’Challa admitted, choosing his words carefully. “Not because I’ll not have their help. Because I’ve never been away so long, and that…”

“Do you regret that you have so many to leave behind who love you so?”

“No,” he answered firmly

The king gestured for his son to bow his head. A cold, heavy weight settled over T’Challa’s neck; as he looked down, he saw silver claws suspended from a brilliant chain. Within each claw laid a gleaming amethyst or sapphire. T’Challa had never seen such an intricate piece of jewelry. He hardly knew what to say.

“There may come a time in your journey when its value becomes clear. You will need to decide.” He touched his thumb to T’Challa’s lips and smiled.

“Thank you, father.”

The prince was given more time to collect the necessary belongings, including provisions for the first few days. Anything else he would need to scavenge for himself. After he changed into the robe Ramonda had given him, he paced. 

His last visitor knocked softly on the door. “Are you ready, Prince T’Challa?” Zuri asked.

He closed his eyes and pictured M’Baku, Shuri in his arms, both of their eyes shining in the morning sunlight.

“I’m ready.”


	8. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

“We still haven’t talked about your journey,” M’Baku said, pulling at the blades of grass between himself and T’Challa.

T’Challa stared into the blue and gold sky. The sun was ebbing away beyond the horizon, blanketed by wispy white clouds. M’Baku was a warm presence beside him. M’Baku was also, of course, correct. It had been two weeks since his journey. In that time, they had seen each other on three occasions; today’s visit was the most unusual because it was outside of anything scheduled. T’Challa had called on M’Baku simply to see if he would agree to see him. He hadn’t know what to do with himself when M’Baku said yes.

“I’m sure you were very bored without me. And helpless.” M’Baku did not laugh, though his eyes betrayed the joke.

“You’ll be disappointed to know how bravely I found my way home.”

“Ah, little prince, modesty does not suit you.”

They both laughed. T’Challa blushed at the nickname. He rested his arms on his knees and peered at the muscle there, far more plentiful and noticeable than when he first met M’Baku, hardened by training and his journey. He wondered if M’Baku noticed. Just in case he didn’t, T’Challa stretched upward, arching his spine, and looked anywhere but at his fiancé.

M’Baku said, “Tell me more about it on the way.” T’Challa furrowed his brow. M’Baku stood and offered his hand. “Come. My people are finishing a new carving today, and I want to show you.”

Any of the usual protests T’Challa would make about visiting snowy Jabariland at night vanished with the slide of M’Baku’s palm against his. They reemerged, however, when M’Baku pulled him only halfway off the ground and then dropped him. T’Challa jumped up, scowling. His insults were drowned out by M’Baku’s uproarious laughter. Soon, T’Challa joined him, small chuckles that bolstered the closer he walked to his troublemaking fiancé.. M’Baku threw his arm around T’Challa’s shoulders as their feet turned toward snow.

“After you left me, I met with my parents, and they gave me gifts: robes and a necklace of the finest jewels I have ever seen. Then, Zuri took me to the jungle--beyond Wakanda’s borders--and left me. Don’t look so concerned; I had a knife.”

“I don’t look concerned,” M’Baku mumbled.

“Are you sure?” T’Challa teased. “We can stop if it’s upsetting.”

“I’ll leave you in the snow.” The empty threat came with raised eyebrows and a push to the side, which T’Challa dodged easily.

“Alone, and somewhat defenseless, warriors are meant to survive the journey back to Wakanda. All of the Dora Milaje participate in this ceremony. The prince, however, is given harsher conditions. Zuri gave me a bottle to drink from every sunrise, one that would enhance my natural senses but leave me intoxicated, disoriented. I hunted and fought boars. I communed with the spirits of my ancestors. And I almost died.”

T’Challa breathed deeply before losing himself to the memory. “Near the end of my journey, I was fishing when it began to rain. The storm was powerful, soaking the ground in an instant. I lost my footing in the mud and fell into the rapids. I had already torn and lost the robes from my mother, but I still wore my father’s necklace.”

“It was made of vibranium. Unbreakable. So when it caught on a rock--”

“It didn’t snap,” M’Baku interrupted, his mouth drawn into a tight line.

Nodding, T’Challa continued, “I did not want to destroy it. But then I remembered what my father told me when he gave it to me: There may come a time in your journey when its value becomes clear. You will need to decide. It took all of my strength to heave myself over that rock and fling the necklace into the water. The river carried me away instantly, although it released me when the rain stopped. I slept as soon as I swam to shore.”

“In the morning I woke to familiar trees and birdsong. Zuri’s bottle was empty. My body ached. My feet bled. Yet I walked through the border, watching as dense trees became the plains of my childhood. The Border Tribe gave me shelter for day, and at sunset, I returned home a man.”

T’Challa wasn’t surprised when he felt the cold bite of Jabariland wind. His throat was dry from his storytelling; he drank from the canteen in his bag and then offered some to M’Baku, who waved it away.

Eventually, M’Baku broke his silence. “We have something similar, only in the mountains. It is much more dangerous than your journey.”

T’Challa snorted. “I’m sure. Tell me of your trials, then.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not when there are more interesting things to be done,” M’Baku said, and pointed.

Following his sightline, T’Challa squinted and was able to make out the shapes of a dozen Jabari men and women gathered in a snow-covered valley. Torches and lanterns pulsed in the oncoming darkness. Surrounding them were grooves, expertly carved into benches that hid amongst the mountain stone. Music, wind instruments and drums, soaked the sky. It seemed the whole tribe had gathered to watch this--

“What is this?” T’Challa asked, mesmerized.

M’Baku was beaming as he led T’Challa down toward the valley. He looked ridiculous, with his massive legs practically skipping to the spot. “Every year, my father accepts a new statue into his throne room. Our people compete for this honor.”

“Your carvings are beautiful,” T’Challa whispered as they found empty seats. “Why don’t you enter?”

Frowning, M’Baku answered while his eyes strayed to the contenders’ near-complete projects. “I appreciate the compliment, little prince, but these artists… They have carved all their lives. When I become king, I will carve my own throne. That is my honor. This is theirs.”

T’Challa looked over at his fiance. The fire flickered over his face, casting shadows across his cheeks and lips, and T’Challa caught himself thinking how warm his skin would taste if he kissed him. M’Baku caught him staring. When T’Challa blushed and turned away, M’Baku caught his chin and held it so their eyes met.

“Come with me.”

“Don’t you want to watch?” The audience was cheering as the contestants set down their tools. Final presentations must have be next.

“Not when there are more interesting things to be done,” M’Baku whispered.

M’Baku’s room was warmer than the first time T’Challa had visited. He wondered if M’Baku had increased the temperature just for him, and the thought made him smile. He knew in reality that it was probably just the reason; Jabariland was colder than it had ever been in T’Challa’s visits, and certainly an unwelcome change from the fairly singular climate in Wakanda.

Suddenly, T’Challa realized how exhausted he was. After leaving his shoes in the hall, he sat on the edge of M’Baku’s bed and curled his toes into the fur rug beneath it, admiring the view. M’Baku’s back was turned to him as he rekindled the fireplace, proving there were multiple ways to heat a room.

T’Challa laughed at himself. He smothered the sound when M’Baku turned, eyes bright with the obvious question. But he didn’t ask, for which T’Challa thanked Bast. Some things were far better left unsaid.

M’Baku did, however, cross the room and stand before T’Challa, one hand on the bedpost and the other on his own hip. “You can sleep,” he offered in what T’Challa considered a rare moment of consideration for his fiancé.

“I’m not that tired,” T’Challa argued. He kept his voice level so he didn’t betray his eagerness to spend more time with M’Baku.

Ducking his head, M’Baku smirked and flattened his palm against T’Challa’s chest. “Is this alright?” he asked after a moment.

T’Challa swallowed, nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Lie back.”

He pressed gently while T’Challa crawled backwards. Each finger was lightning through T’Challa’s chest, sending shockwaves straight to his heart. He could barely breathe once his head hit the pillows.

M’Baku lifted his hand. He traced the bruises left by the necklace slowly, bordering on reverently. T’Challa closed his eyes and savored the feeling. He was pondering what exactly he had done to earn such attention when he felt M’Baku’s hand slip to his waist, fingers tugging experimentally on the fabric there. T’Challa opened his eyes. M’Baku was smirking, and he was closer than before; T’Challa could feel his breath on his throat and sighed quietly, his body already responding--a jolt through his stomach, a rush of blood through his veins. He made eye contact with M’Baku just as M’Baku slid his hand beneath his waistband.

Whatever confusion T’Challa had felt was gone in an instant. He didn’t care why--all that ran through his mind was yes and more. M’Baku’s hand was warm and firm, practiced and teasing. He knew what he was doing but did his best to figure out how T’Challa liked to be touched as well; though T’Challa was content just to be touched at all, his fantasies and dreams hardly comparable to the real feeling.

Burying his face in M’Baku’s neck, T’Challa fisted one hand in the sheets and pressed the other to M’Baku’s chest. M’Baku moved faster, sure he was pleasing T’Challa and proud of it, too. He curled his free hand around the back of T’Challa’s neck and held him close. When T’Challa came, M’Baku smoothed that hand down T’Challa’s chest until he ceased shuddering.

T’Challa inhaled sharply when M’Baku rolled away from him. Panting, he leaned back against the bed, his head reeling. He knew he looked like a mess--t-shirt disheveled, a growing wet spot on his pants--but he felt no shame from it. Instead, he smiled, feeling lightheaded and content.

M’Baku smiled back. T’Challa realized he should say something, though ‘thank you’ seemed an inappropriate response. So he started with, “Why did you do that?”

M’Baku chuckled. “Don’t get any ideas. You just looked like you needed it.”

“Well--Well, yeah, you weren’t wrong.” He looked at M’Baku’s hand, where cum still slicked his fingers, and flushed. He continued, “Are you, uh. Do you want--?”

“No, I’m fine.” Turning his back to T’Challa, M’Baku got out of the bed and stepped out of the bedroom for a moment. T’Challa heard water running from the bathroom, and then M’Baku’s voice over it: “I bet you regret not taking me up on my offer all those months ago.”

T’Challa rolled his eyes. He recalled M’Baku’s suggestion from their first meeting--“I don’t like you at all, little prince, but I’ll admit I find you attractive. I don’t like this arrangement, either, but I’m sure we can make it benefit us in… some ways.” T’Challa had ignored it at the time, though he had given a lot of thought to it since. He wondered how often M’Baku thought of him that way.

M’Baku emerged from the bathroom with clean hands and his usual smug expression. T’Challa was willing to admit it was earned in this instance.

“It crossed my mind,” T’Challa agreed honestly. “Like you said, though, I’m not getting any ideas.” He curled the corner of his mouth into a smile.

“Too bad.”

T’Challa cocked his head, and M’Baku shrugged. Finally having extracted himself from the bed, T’Challa huffed when M’Baku pushed him down onto it again, but the sound quickly became a surprised moan when M’Baku pressed himself fully against T’Challa, molding their bodies together as close as clothes allowed. He grabbed T’Challa’s chin and tipped it back so their eyes met.

“I was looking forward to begging for you, T’Challa.”

T’Challa whimpered involuntarily, and M’Baku licked his lips. His eyes were dark and half-lidded, his breaths quick. This he was more used to; he had never fooled around with Nakia without reciprocating. Except--there was more T’Challa wanted reciprocated than this. He decided to be the one to push M’Baku away this time, his chest constricting as he thought how this was all they would ever be to each other. Some fun, a way to get off. T’Challa could have been alright with that if it hadn’t been for the past months, if he hadn’t spent his journey thinking of returning to M’Baku with just as much anticipation as seeing his family again. He’d seen so many American films that argued love was for children; T’Challa knew now how wrong that was.

“You’re too easy.” T’Challa joked. He hoped his laugh didn’t sound too forced.

M’Baku laughed, too, but T’Challa could tell he was affected. He nodded, separated himself from T’Challa, cleared his throat, and looked away. Flushing, he scrubbed his hands across his face. “Yeah, you have me there,” he replied, but he still wouldn’t look at T’Challa. He shook his head. “Sorry about that. I know you said you weren’t interested in sleeping together--I won’t--it won’t happen again.”

M’Baku was out of the bed before T’Challa could respond. He sighed and stared at the ceiling and listened to M’Baku move around the room. Comfortable, sated, and warm, it wasn’t long until he drifted off to sleep in M’Baku’s bed.

Jaguars stalked his dreams. T’Challa was alone in a void, catching blood-soaked claws in his periphery, feeling tails strike his calves. He whipped around with his fists held high. But his hands were a child’s, weak, little. He cried out. The void shuddered as something large ran across it. T’Challa closed his eyes, though curiosity caused him to look again. A massive gorilla reached out to him. It drew him in before snarling at the unseen jaguars. The world continued to quake, and T’Challa’s body lurched forward.

“Wake up, I’m hungry.”

T’Challa groaned and rolled over; tucking his head against the pillow, he batted at whoever was disturbing him.

“T’Challa. Come on.” Warm hands shook his shoulders.

Oh.

Opening his eyes quickly, T’Challa stared up at M’Baku, who was still dressed in the same wool sweater and soft linen pants. His eyes lit up when he saw T’Challa was awake and surveying him.

“Let’s go.”

“You can’t go eat without me?”

“Just come on.” M’Baku paused. After a moment, he held out his hand. “Trust me?”

T’Challa groaned but took the hand he was offered anyway, and this time M’Baku didn’t drop him. He did let go, however, once they were out of the room, and T’Challa shook himself awake. M’Baku was just being courteous. He was also being mysterious.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“That is not comforting, coming from you. What time is it, anyway? Early or late?” T’Challa yawned, stretched, and rubbed his eyes.

M’Baku gave him a sideways look. “Early. You slept through the night. We’re making breakfast.”

They ended up, to T’Challa’s surprise, in a modestly-sized kitchen. The walls were a stunning cherry wood color, and T’Challa immediately felt warmed by it, the same way he felt warmed by M’Baru’s paternal affections. It was comforting and familiar.

“My mother had this built. It is the second one in the kingdom, separate from the main kitchen. She loved cooking. She often cooked for days, and took everything to the rivers herself for the fishermen there. The way my father tells it, she must have spent more time there than in the throne room.”

T’Challa realized this was the first time they had spoken of Queen Yejide--T’Challa had done his research, better late than never--since his first visit to Jabariland. He asked carefully, “Did she teach you to cook?”

“Yes. When I was young. I of course got quite good at it.”

T’Challa snorted. “Prince M’Baku, so humble.”

M’Baku nodded. “Of course.”

M’Baku pulled ingredient after ingredient from the cabinets, and told T’Challa what bowls and pans to retrieve. They didn’t talk much but for the exchanging of instructions and questions, which felt--natural, T’Challa decided, like his father and mother when they read together, silent but for reading excerpts they knew the other would like. A sharp jolt of pain seized T’Challa as he realized he would likely never do the same with M’Baku. M’Baku, who was simply making breakfast with a friend who happened to be his fiancé.

Well, T’Challa decided, I could live with that.

Almost an hour later, M’Baku was pulling their creation from the oven, a smile on his face. The smell alone made T’Challa’s mouth water.

“What have we made?” He asked, licking his lips. His stomach growled in anticipation.

“We have almost made,” M’Baku corrected, “rusks. They will not be ready for another eight hours. They must dry.”

Indignant, T’Challa gaped at M’Baku and scoffed. “You just made me go through this entire process and we cannot even eat them?” M’Baku shrugged. Without even a hint of guilt, he took the tray of rusks from the counter and slid them into a warming drawer.

“It will be worth it.”

“I’d like to think you’re just trying to keep me around a while longer,” T’Challa murmured.

M’Baku’s eyes snapped to T’Challa. “Hm?”

“I said, I’d like to think I won’t have to wait for breakfast any longer.”

Laughing, M’Baku pushed off from the counter and turned. He pulled more ingredients and bowls from the pantry and cabinets, following another few, quicker recipes from memory, until they had a decent breakfast assembled before them. Instead of taking it to another room, they ate hunched over the counter like children; T’Challa savored every bite and was disappointed when all the food was gone.

“M’Baku,” T’Challa said quickly, before his nerves could overcome him. “Can you show me more? About your people, about this place. Your world is one I would like to know better-- _need_ to know better.”

M’Baku smiled. “Come with me.” He extended his hand, and T’Challa happily accepted it.

**Author's Note:**

> The biggest thing preventing us from working on this is the need to work for money for Adulting. If you ever feel so inclined, we have started a ko-fi should anyone wish to support us. Here is the link! https://ko-fi.com/U7U0GEE2


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